


impetuous (or: by crook or by rook)

by FryedEggs, Silverhelme



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Affirmation blowjobs, Also tonnes of English and Victorian slang/colloquialisms in here, Alternate Canon, Angst, Assassin's Creed: Syndicate, Bisexual Jacob Frye, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Communication between siblings imagine that, Flirting, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Is keeping my crops watered and my fruit bountiful, Jacob is also demisexual fucking fight me, M/M, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Recovery, Romance, Slow Burn, This has turned into a study of the life and times of Jacob Frye and I ain't sorry, Torture, Younger Jacob and Evie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 139,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23563960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FryedEggs/pseuds/FryedEggs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverhelme/pseuds/Silverhelme
Summary: Evie looks like she’s about to tumble into a tangent, staring up at the manor house in that way she does: it would always make a smaller Jacob marvel, in awe of his elder sister. Back when they were young, and she knew so much about so many different things.A proper anorak, he’d tease.Evie never made him feel simple or slow, back then. She was only a person, wanting to impart her love of knowledge to someone else, who in turn appreciated the time she gave him.He misses that.---As usual, Jacob manages to find trouble where Evie has carefully planned around it.
Relationships: Evie Frye & Jacob Frye, Evie Frye/Henry Green | Jayadeep Mir
Comments: 174
Kudos: 96





	1. there's an art to life's distractions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! Hope you enjoy my (not-so) little story here as it takes shape. I am always grateful for your time spent reading and commenting, thank you! This story is co-written and edited by my beautiful and amazing wife [silverhelme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverhelme), and Chapters 1-15 Beta'd my wonderful friend-daughter [aimfire27](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimfire27)!

“No thanks, love, I’ll have the one that’s _not_ burnt. Beside it.” 

Jacob flashes a smile at the old woman, successfully stripping the sour look from her wooden mug like a hardy splash of turps. Mardy cow.

While she’s gathering the rest of the order, he casually skirts his attention over the remainder of her stock: enthusiastically plucking out a couple of the fresh breadcakes, _and_ a dripping pork pie for the road. _Plus_ some more of those flatcakes with cheese on top—it’s Agnes’ coin, she won’t know. 

He is a growing boy after all. 

She better be pleased with his work, seeing as the train owner all but twisted his arm and drove him straight out the door: sending him off to fetch food from the nearby covered market while Bertha restocks at Waterloo Bridge.

He was quite enjoying that mid-morning kip, too. 

Jacob honestly doesn’t know why she can’t make do with the supplies being loaded. It’s everything they’ll need for at least a week or more. Supplying not only the train and the staff, but him, Evie, and his Rooks. 

And _they_ eat like locusts after a fast.

Unable to wait, while the stall owner’s back is turned anyway, Jacob stuffs half the pork pie in his gob. 

He can’t fathom where they get it from.

Wiping crumbs from the edge of his scruff, Jacob fails to close his mouth while chewing (and only ends up dropping more) when he spots a green cap bobbing down the way, two more hovering around it. 

It’s Kenny, and Martha. Lew, too. Three of his best and it looks like they’re sticking to schedule, out on their Southwark rounds for the day. 

Good.

Jacob’s got a game with them tonight: whist on the train at seven. He better not lose again or there’ll be a mutiny based on insufficient management smarts. Or something similar. It’s a matter of Frye pride, either way.

Swallowing down his hastily-chewed pie with a painful gulp, he shoves in the second half, knocking the crust bits from his coat and successfully hiding all evidence of any thievery. 

The perfect crime. 

The market might be bustling all around him, sellers calling in every ear and signs flashing every spiel you can think of to spark a sale, but Jacob’s a sharp study. 

By now he’s well aware when a _bump_ to his person is accidental or deliberate—and, quick as a whippet, he grabs at the hand that just dipped its sticky fingers in his belt. Glares at the scrawny runt, now desperately trying to rag away from his hold clamped firmly around their bony wrist. 

Jacob raises and dangles the kid a foot or so off the ground, baring his teeth. 

“What have I told you lot about helping yourself to my hard-earned gravy, ey?!”

“Oi! Put! Me! Down!” 

The girl kicks her legs, tatted skirts and limbs flailing back and forth, managing to thump him in the shin and thigh a couple of times. People directly surrounding the pair shuffle back warily, clearing a small circle. 

Jacob sighs, dropping his captive to the floor but not letting go of her arm.

“Are you one of Clara’s urchins? _Hm_?”

She glares and smacks his arm like a captured sparrow flapping at a goshawk. 

“I’ll take that as a _‘yes’_. Tell her Jacob Frye is _not_ fair game. And it is _not_ clever. Anymore.” 

He lets go while plucking his purse from her grasp and watches as she scarpers off like a stabbed rat. Before she can disappear into the gullible, slow-moving throng, however, Jacob tosses her a couple of coins. 

“ _Oi_! Two bob for the road.”

She catches them both before they even hit the ground, disappearing for real this time. 

Impressive. 

He blinks, suddenly miffed at just _how_ impressed he finds himself, and turns back to the important matter at hand. 

Food.

But a glance returned to the stall owner sees a look so rough it sends Jacob’s smile slipping faster than a cat from a wet tin roof.

Flinging her an apologetic grin for dawdling, "Sorry, love." He swaps the sack of bread in her hand for three shillings in her palm, tearing away as soon as he’s able. 

“Now, where the bloody hell am I going to find… _form-al-de-hide?”_

He has to keep reading, squinting at the short list Henry’s left him to trawl through. 

Jacob sneezes suddenly, too quick to cover his mouth, and ends up spraying all over the paper in his hand. A chorus of unthinking _bless yous_ sound around him, and _blast the damn_ warm air in here, always prickles up his nose this time of season. 

Blinking back at the list and wiping some of the shine away, partially smudging the ink, he’s unfamiliar with the lion’s share of items written in Greenie’s posh script (or indeed their purpose). Any brief and unhelpful explanations he was given—while being shuffled from the train like a mangy dog from a meat market—are, in Jacob’s esteem, hardly worth mentioning.

Rounding the next table and sure enough, Henry’s precious stall is here: doesn’t make the tall shelves covered in bleached white skulls of various dead beasts any less daunting, though. There're fiddly-looking contraptions that wouldn’t look out of place in Aleck’s house, illustrations of bits and shapes that he’d rather not know about, and manky unspoken pieces floating in cloudy jars. He doesn’t really want to know what _any_ of it is.

Jacob sighs.

“Evie’s better at this stuff than me.” 

He’s feeling a little overwhelmed. 

Before he can get swallowed up by any scientific sorcery that lies ahead (and no doubt taken for a ride by the canny-looking owner), there’s a sudden upset further down the line of stalls. 

Jacob can see well over most people’s heads, and clocks a ragged cap bobbing and weaving towards the exit, all to the ruddy great sound of an old crow wailing lyrically ‘ _oh heavens_ _some villain has made off with m’baaaag!’_

Post rolling his eyes at the theatrics, Jacob tugs down his own flat cap (not quite as ragged just yet _thank_ _you_ ) and starts off in the thief’s direction. Darting past the old dame and the few unhelpful busybodies that have already gathered nearby to gawp, he’s calling cheerily,

“I’ll get it, Madam, don’t you worry!”

He’s used to running through crowds but they’re not generally this dense, it’s like Spitalfields on a bloody Saturday—and not ever with a satchel bulging with foodstuffs at his back. 

The thing’s thumping against his arse as he races along, and smacking the odd pedestrian, which makes Jacob chuckle. 

He just _knows_ it’ll be leaving a lovely lush bruise on himself soon enough, but he’s not dropping his hard work to dodge a purple arse. Bloody great beetroots. 

Bursting out into the bright of midday, a fine curtain of tepid drizzle hits his face as he takes a second to adjust his eyes and find where the cad sped off to. 

Jacob spots them disappearing down a twitten on the path opposite, knocking a mother and her two little lads flying to get past. 

Now, was there really any need for that?

He growls at the sight and takes off running, narrowly skirting the seams of two hansoms driving opposite ways across the puddle-littered cobbles. 

He briefly stops to help haul the flattened woman out from the muddied weeds she’s fallen into, leaving her and her boys with a flash of a grin and a tip of his cap. 

It’s a long alley with no other exits than the head and tail, meaning he can still clearly see the little chuff running along like a weasel through a warren. 

Dodging a couple of disgruntled bodies on the way, Jacob’s gaining on the lanky lad. All those years of racing Evie along the rooftops and backyards of Crawley paying off. He was always faster, no matter what tale she might spin now.

“ _Get back here, you meater_!”

Jacob’s bellow looks to catch the swindler asleep on the job, careening into the side of the fence and stumbling to hit the wet ground like a rogue skittle. They seem to regain their footing but not without Jacob catching sight of their face. 

They look _terrified_ , and young—only about eleven to Jacob’s eyes. 

A deep _thud_ at the bottom of his chest unwillingly slows his feet for a couple of loping strides; the expression on the lad’s face knocking him for six. 

Reminds him exactly of his own nights on the streets, not necessarily for thieving or lack of a bed back home, but, same difference. How Jacob wished someone had given him a break just once, most times feeling chased as a plague rat up a drainpipe. 

The kid’s almost reached the end of the way and Jacob feels the fire fueling his grit die down, mentally tipping a bucket of sand over it. 

He decides to leave off and let the mere stripling get away. That old maid had the earmarks, she could spare a few bob anyhow. 

No one _really_ gets hurt. 

That however, as it usually goes for Jacob Frye, was some wishful bloody thinking on his part; as fate itself chooses for him that the urchin _should_ be caught and taught.

Timing wholly with the thief reaching the end of the line of fences, another scrawny little leg breezes in from Timbuktu and sends the boy sprawling out on his stomach like a rag doll. 

The lad’s flat cap goes sailing into the middle of the road ahead where it is punctually run over by a cart. 

Trotting up just in time, Jacob snatches the bag from the floor when the beaten boy tries to, catching both it and their wrist in a hand each. 

“Well, _well_. What have we here then? _A little grasshopper_.”

“Oi! Let go!”

Jacob snorts at the sight of the lad hitting against his forearm to break free—bloody kid thinks he’s Jem Mace—then throws his head back and laughs, as the triumphant owner of the vanquishing leg trots up by his side. 

Naturally.

It's the girl from earlier, who stole— _tried to steal_ —his purse, with a bloody big grin on her face at that, and rightly so. 

“You’re a bricky little miss, aren’t you?

She doffs a cap that isn’t there, and Jacob raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“I saw ya needed sum help, sir. So I did. Two shillings.”

“I _beg_ your pardon…”

“Three bob for me trouble, sir.”

With both kids in front of him Jacob sighs heavenward, wondering what he’s going to do now. “Why am I the one who attracts you unscrupulous characters?”

“— _you're a knobhead_!”

Jacob clips the thief round the ear. 

“And _you_ weren’t meant to answer that.”

The lad squeals like a stuck pig in a fence and Jacob grins, dropping his wrist and rifling through the stolen bag instead. Lace handkerchief, sweets, a fancy-lookin’ notebook—nothing the old grey will _truly_ miss.

And the kid’s broom-handle skinny at that, no meat on his bones. Too hungry to care whose bag he’s nicked, but Jacob can’t very well let him go without a word.

“Now listen. Next time you stretch those fingers in some old crow’s purse, do it on the _edge_ of the crowd. Not slap-bang in the middle. Got it?”

The sight of a pound note turns the boy to a magpie, those big brown eyes almost flying out of his head. Jacob stuffs it in the lad’s clutching hands and watches him dance like a frog on a stick, happy as Larry.

Probably the most money he’s seen at once in his whole life.

Looking fond, Jacob ruffles the kid’s greasy hair.

“Now go on. Scarper.” 

“— _Th_ _ank you_ , _Mista_! Thank you!”

He does as told, and Jacob shoves away his smile. Can’t very well be seen gifting coin and the like freely, like some kind of criminally-inclined Father Christmas, and then looking _pleased_ about it. 

Bad for the reputation. 

Now. Back to Little-Miss-Brazen, who’s currently eyeing him like a dog in a butcher-shop window, and _no._ No _._ Jacob’s not doing this.

“No,” he warns, while she just smirks and turns her palm up, sure of another free meal.

“Four shillings sir, for me assistance in foilin’ dreadful crimes.” Her eyes are wide and guileless blue. Jacob knows better, and scoffs.

"He was hardly the Prince of Poisoners." 

She's unbothered.

He sighs, caving faster than Freddy whenever Jacob tips his head and bats his lashes to get what he wants, and chucks the miniature scamp a bob from the nicked bag, waving her off gruffly. 

"Go on, out of it."

Her pout at the meagre hand-out is adorable and Jacob roughs up her hair too as he walks by, grinning at the sullen huff aired behind him… before he hears her squeak.

"Clara was right wen she said you was a easy mark!"

Jacob balks and turns with a start, but the little cow’s already pelting off down the road, disappearing between the row of houses. 

" _You better run_!"

* * *

There’s one hell of a glorious sight greeting him as Jacob skips up the stairway at Waterloo Bridge not half-an-hour later. Satchel even heavier at his hip but hell if he’s lagging, it’s already past time and Agnes will be birthing kittens if he doesn’t hurry. 

Bertha’s heaving steam out into the frigid station air, fires banked roaring and ready to go. Jacob’s all the keener because of it, and well aware those three succinct whistles currently screaming are beckoning him to return.

Jacob heads straight into the carriage where he knows she’ll be, ready to face the music.

“ _Oi_! Ya bampot, where in tha _hell_ —”

“— _Before_ you say anything, Agnes, I got bogged down saving half of London. As usual.”

He swaps the bulging bag of supplies for an earful, Agnes spitting hot Scottish ire and looking like she’s ‘bout to blow, steam billowing from her ears like a human-sized Bertha. 

"An' _ooh's_ gonne save _you_!"

Jacob backs up hastily. 

“Yer ‘alf an ‘our _late_!”

“So I _hear_. Some of Henry’s trappings are in there, by the by. I’m sure he’ll come get them when he’s ready.”

Already scooting out the rear door of the carriage, he graciously fucks right off before Agnes can make good on her threats, taking the leap between cars without batting an eye. 

The study is its usual calm and cosy safe haven, with a fire in the grate and nary a scary Scot in sight. The air is warmed and thick, hanging in a serene stillness that Jacob steps through, almost carefully.

The train begins to chug along the platform, making late afternoon shadows dance across the newly-laid carpet and his mud-splattered trousers, heating the room further. 

Jacob shrugs off his heavy coat, unbuckles the leather gauntlet from around his wrist and lobs it on the desk with a clatter and not a second thought.

He does, however, think twice about his immediate inclination to go for a few jars in the next carriage along. He’ll have plenty of time tonight at the game, as he soundly beats the smug fucks who think they can win Jacob Frye. 

They may have several previous victories under their belt, but they can leave it out.

Instead Jacob decides to get back to his very important and urgent business of before.

He slumps onto the plush settee, rolling down the seat like a deer skin. Tipping back into the pile of luxe velveteen pillows behind, he sets folded hands upon his chest: good deeds done for the day, Jacob finally allows himself to relax. 

He draws down his cap and smacks his lips, ready to try n’catch forty of those winks he’s heard so much about. After that faff of a morning, he’s more than earned it.

Puffing out a sigh, he idly scratches at his scruff and shuts his eyes with a long yawn.

 _Delightful_. 

Next thing Jacob knows, a bash of carriage door into paneled wall knocks him loose from his hazy grip on sleep, grimacing under his cap.

Devil knows how long he drifted off, but it sure as hell wasn’t long enough.

Familiar voices are making their way through the car, his sister for one: still as a corpse, Jacob makes the hasty decision to stay asleep. 

“You may not have found a Piece of Eden, Evie, but this material is invaluable. Look—”

Ah, Greenie. Good man. Even better Assassin. Equally fond of all the same academic rot as Evie, but entirely more bearable about it. You've got to love any man who welcomes you to London with gifts of knives and loaded firearms, on principle. 

"It says that the London assassins had found a shroud!"

And, of course. _Dear_ sister. His mirror in height and age, and absolute-bloody-stranger in near every other way: she looks where Jacob leaps, crafts plans whilst he’s already throwing fists. Completely maddening at all times, and his very best friend. 

Watch him never tell her so.

Just the foal and the filly then, heading towards the desk a few feet away. Jacob watches their boots stroll by beneath the brim of his cap. 

Seems they’re waxing lyrical about the usual: secret objects and Precursor history, and all that gaff Jacob usually tries to avoid like the pox. If it’s only talk and nothing tangible, he’s very much not interested. 

That said… it sounds like they’re plotting an outing. A jaunt. A _mission_. And since his next target—the right honourable Doctor Elliotson—has no meeting with his hidden blade until the morning, _this_ is the most exciting thing going.

When he kicks to his feet, a handful of pillows go tumbling to the carpet. Jacob leaves them there, like they’re a part of his act.

“Mind if _I_ join you?”

And why hide his delight at the irritated surprise on his sister’s face, when he can smirk.

“Little brother. I thought you were asleep.”

“Looks can be deceiving. _So_ —you’ve found a map! How fun.”

“Mister Green and I have it covered. _Thanks_.”

Evie? Brushing him off? How out of character.

“Oh don’t sell me a dog, Evie. An extra hand can’t hurt. The more the merrier!”

“This is serious, Jacob. We can’t have you mucking up the mission like last night. Recall?”

Of _course_ he recalls it, and _nothing_ went wrong—maybe the horse and hansom chase versus thirty Blighters give-or-take was a trifle unexpected. And the skin-of-their-teeth leap onto the moving train as it hurtled through Whitechapel, a _tad_ unplanned—but all’s well that ends well.

And now Greenie’s got in his hands on the very product of their success, so. 

Neat and tidy, Bob’s your uncle.

“We came away with _that_ book!”

He’s somebody’s uncle, anyway.

“No thanks to you.”

Jacob may as well be banging his head against the lacquered walls in here. 

“You _need_ someone like me. _Brave_. _Powerful_ —”

“—incompetent.”

“ _Please_ , you two.”

Like clockwork Greenie steps in, to smooth the curdling milk between them with that steady reliability, sombre as ever: in another life the man was a tin of glue, Jacob knows it. All gentle insistence on sticking things together without incident. At least the fellow’s pleading tones work wonders on Evie, enough to make his twin shut her trap.

“Please. We _must_ focus on the mission. We cannot allow the Templars to gain the upper hand before we even begin. And, I agree. It certainly won’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes helping us.“ 

Steadying his hands on his hips, Jacobs cocks an eyebrow.

“Hear that, dear sister?”

“Fine.” 

Evie storms off. Jacob lets her go. 

“You’d better take the reins, Greenie. Evie’s not _my_ first choice of whip—”

His gauntlet cracks into the side of his head with a leathery _thwap_ , followed by Evie’s sickly-sweet sneer. 

“I think you’ll be needing _this_.” 

And then she’s off like a spooked doe, darting for the safety of the next car and a handful of Rooks before Jacob can cry foul, but _Christ._ Sometimes she grates on him like stale cheddar. 

Henry eyes him for a moment, almost apologetic—lips pursed, shrugging those sinewy shoulders as if to say, _sorry mate_ , _but she’s right_ —and then he’s gone as well, and that’s that.

Jacob sighs and follows them. 

“Arseholes.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am including notes, explanations on English stuff people outside of the UK might not know, and information on research as well as little hidden gems in the story at the bottom of every chapter!
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Turps** : shortened version of turpentine; a common chemical that strips wood of paint and varnish
> 
>  **Waterloo Bridge Station** : today the station is simply 'Waterloo', but in 1848 when it opened, it was named the former. Only in 1882 was it renamed to its current usage
> 
>  **Kip** : sleep/nap
> 
>  **'gullible, slow-moving throng'** : P. T. Barnum (of the Barnum & Bailey Circus fame) opened Barnum's American Museum in New York City. A quote of his regarding the crowds it drew was, "perpetuating into the 1860s the Wunderkammer tradition of curiosities for gullible, often slow-moving throngs." I thought it'd be a cute little easter egg
> 
>  **Twitten** : West Sussex (where Crawley is located) term for an alleyway. On the wikipedia article for 'alleyway', just in England alone I counted 28 different colloquiacal variations of saying the word 'alleyway'
> 
>  **Skittle** : a bowling pin
> 
>  **Jem Mace** : Jason Mace; an English bare-knuckle boxing champion. He won the English Welterweight, Heavyweight, and Middleweight championships between 1860-66. Jacob would have a big hero-crush on him
> 
>  **Bricky** : Victorian slang meaning 'brave'
> 
>  **Dreadful crimes** : the title of a PS4 exclusive DLC for the game (which I haven't played yet! Grrrr)
> 
>  **Prince of Poisoners** : William Palmer; an English doctor and famous serial killer. Wait for this: he poisoned his mother-in-law, a guest who stayed at his residence, four of his own children, his wife, his brother, his lover and their illegitimate child, and his best friend. He was caught and hanged in front of 30,000 people in 1856. What a charming fellow! Reportedly the origin of the phrase "what's your poison?"
> 
>  **Jar** : Victorian slang for a pint
> 
>  **Foal and filly** : Victorian slang for 'young lovers'
> 
>  **Pox** : Smallpox killed 400,000 europeans annually during the 19th century!
> 
>  **Don't sell me a dog** : Victorian slang for 'don't lie to me'
> 
>  **Bob's your uncle** : Common phrase in the UK, Ireland and Commonwealth, meaning 'and there it is'. No solid origin of the phrase, but a common one is in 1887 Conservative Prime Minister Robert Gascoyne-Cecil ("Bob") appointed his nephew Arthur Balfour as Chief Secretary for Ireland. This nepotism was apparently the cause of the phrase. The only qualifications Balfour needed for the job was, "Bob's your uncle" (I know 1887 is later than the story but it's such a common phrase I threw caution to the wind)
> 
>  **Whip** : a rider/driver of a horse/carriage


	2. chivalry fell on his sword

“Can you not drive any faster? I’m falling asleep.”

The glare withered his way is all the answer Jacob needs, otherwise ignored by both Evie and Greenie for the second time this trip. This trip that has amounted to half a street’s-length at _most_ , and he can take a bleeding hint.

He’s a lengthy stroll from bothered though, drifts his focus instead to the crowds of people passing by along the pavement. Tall ones, short ones, odd couples and perfect fits. Heat rising from stalls hawking cooked pork and boiled eels, the smells tugging his gut like a string. Some fool even has an umbrella out, for hell knows what reason—the sun dried up the morning’s drizzle ages ago, leaving behind a glorious blue sky behind the white of Wren’s spires.

Jacob managed to snag a seat up front with Romeo and Juliet; shoved to the far left of the bench while Greenie swayed in beside him. And Evie, snapping the reins and taking up far more seat than her smaller frame requires. Typical.

 _Pirates. Kenway. Closely-guarded secrets_. Mildly interesting words that don’t garner his input, Jacob’s more than happy to stay silent. Along for the ride.

The conversation turns to the Shroud Evie’s always banging on about, of course. The same damn thing she’s been after since they arrived in London, has she nothing new to say? He hears her mention Father, and that turns Jacob right off the conversation faster than a kick to the balls. 

No matter. There’s plenty more to be seen this way: passers-by in their Sunday best, a flock of pigeons overhead—they’ll leave him be, if they know what’s good for them. Nothing lucky about a coat streaked in bird shit.

He’s yanked from his reverie when the carriage rocks _hard_ —horses bellowing louder than St. Paul’s bells’ on Resurrection Sunday as instinct sends him bracing for the worst. 

“ _Bloody move, you tosser_!”

Evie’s wrenching the reins and the carriage tilts dangerously as another comes careening past them, missing their wheels by mere footfalls and earning Jacob’s wince.

“You don’t own the sodding street,” she snarls, ruddy-cheeked and snappish with a wrath unseen outside their most spectacular arguments; _dear sister’s_ driving mania is truly something to behold.

Back to a steady trundle over the cobbles, Jacob puffs out his cheeks and grips his cap, momentary panic ebbing like the tide on Thameside. Still crushed against the armrest but thank God for that, kept him from a nasty fall—though on second look, he’s startled to find Greenie half sprawled in his lap. 

Jacob helps the man up, regaining some of that famous composure and cooling the heat he feels rising up his own throat. 

“No offense, Henry. You’re not my type.” 

“Ah— _sorry_ , Jacob. None taken. And, I get that a lot.”

Jacob furrows his brow but Greenie’s clearly teasing, in his own strange way that the younger assassin’s barely glimpsed. 

“I didn’t _mean—_ ”

“We’re almost there. Keep your wits about you.” 

Nostrils flaring at the interruption of whatever shitty apology was falling out his mouth, Jacob glares daggers at the side of Evie’s head. Imagines rubbing her freckled nose in saddle soap, and feels mildly better about the whole thing.

“Jacob: I know you don’t have many to spare so just, do your best.”

With his most theatrical _tut_ and roll of his eyes, he slumps back against the hard wooden seat and stays quiet. Subconsciously folding in his arms a little tighter than necessary, bothering his lip and hoping the old boy beside him didn’t take what he said as some bigoted horseshit on his part. 

Greenie has his life together _far_ too much for Jacob’s liking. They’d never work. And stepping around with someone Evie fancies? He feels nauseous at the _thought_.

Not before long the carriage is easing to a steady stop, and although he’s not been paying attention since the skirmish and subsequent foot-in-mouth disorder, Jacob knows they’ve arrived.

“Right. I’ll leave the horses here for a quick getaway should the need arise. Come on.”

All three jump down to leave the carriage on standby. Unattended, it’ll likely be gone by the time they’re back: this is London, after all.

Part of the fun, really.

Jumping down to the cobbles with a thud, Jacob catches a sniff of summer mist up his nose and sneezes loud into his elbow. The _damn_ stuff. Glaring watery-eyed at Evie as she strides past with her own dirty look. 

This mansion the two lovebirds have been waffling about is on the park’s far side: a typical green, bustling with every sort of person one imagines being out in the city on a cheery Sunday afternoon. 

Kids carrying on a game of cricket with wooden pallets standing in for makeshift wickets, fairly wobbling in the grass. A fine-looking couple stroll arm in arm, the rather buxom lady’s parasol hitting the stately-looking fellow in the face, if you're into that sort of thing. A trio of blonde little misses racing by, pigtails flapping in the soft breeze; their mothers not far behind, admonishing them for having so much fun. Feels familiar. 

They pass by the bandstand in the centre of the green, occupied by some six gents dressed up in their Sunday finery, brass instruments glinting in the sun. Stealing a second look, Jacob appreciates the view from behind.

_Keep up the great work, fellas._

In sudden fine spirits, he’s humming along with them under his breath.

They’re nearly to the road in front of the mansion as the trees give way to the sight of it, and Jacob’s well impressed. Taking off his cap, he’s smoothing his hair before replacing it and whistling long, like a drop of water falling down a deep well.

“Well that’s the butter on the bacon if ever I saw it.”

“Yes. Edward did quite well for himself.”

Evie looks like she’s about to tumble into a tangent, staring up at the manor house in that way she does: it would always make a smaller Jacob marvel, in awe of his elder sister. Back when they were young, and she knew so much about so many different things. A proper anorak, he’d tease. Evie never made him feel simple or slow, back then. She was only a person, wanting to impart her love of knowledge to someone else, who in turn appreciated the time she gave him.

He misses that.

Jacob pipes up instead, leaping forward a step in his haste to perform. “I always thought I’d make a great pirate. _Jacob Frye: scourge of the seven seas_!”

He _hears_ Evie roll her eyes.

“Instead you’re now the scourge of London.”

Like well-worn steps in a tired dance, Jacob wrinkles his nose.

“The title of _sourest_ was already taken.”

“So what’s the plan?”

As always, Greenie and his sister’s game face appear from nowhere. The three of them have sequestered to the left of the park’s entrance, stood in the shadow of the mansion’s facade. The brick front is hidden behind twin pillars, holding the cast-iron archway aloft.

“Right. Henry and I will infiltrate the mansion and locate the Shroud. Jacob?”

He nods, itching for action.

“You’re staying here and keeping lookout.”

“You _wot_?”

He actually doesn’t even give her a chance to respond, butting in just as she opens her trap.

“I didn’t come all the way out here to end up a glorified guard dog!”

“Three people inside is too risky. They’re bound to spot one of us, at least.”

“You’ve heard of _stealth_? I thought you were supposed to be _good_ at that.”

“ _I_ am.”

He feels his nerves flaring at the insinuation, heat prickling his skin like a rash. Thinks of something to snap in return too late when Henry cuts in.

“Jacob, you can make sure nothing unexpected happens out here. Me and Evie will watch for any signals you may give. There’s plenty of windows in the manor; look.”

He’s not turning to look at some windows he already knows are there. Levelling his glare at no one in particular, Jacob cracks his knuckles and accepts his fate with a deepening scowl.

“ _Fine_.” 

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Jacob’s copped two sausage rolls from a nearby pie cart and is already scoffing his second. 

Other than that highlight, it’s been an uneventful watch from where he’s sitting.

No surprise there.

Slouched against the low brick wall running round the edge of the square, he keeps a casual eye on the scattered patrol apparently safeguarding the boundary of the estate. 

There’s hardly _any_ guards in there. Evie and Henry might as well have strolled right up the bloody drive and knocked on the front door, for all their grief about lookouts.

It’s a cracking afternoon at any rate, and no amount of side-lining can keep him from enjoying the sun on his face, nor the wind in his hair. 

The peachy bandstand lads are bolstering his mood, big brassy notes of _The Flying Trapeze_ fading into _Champagne Charlie_ across the park, and Jacob grins into the rarefied air. Their charming huddle slipped his mind from earlier, but another quick glimpse assures him they remain in top form. Especially the cornet player.

Taking another bite of the roll in his hand, he affects a jaunty lean against the brick and focuses on doing his job.

His job is _so fucking boring,_ though.

He’s sure his mind is going to run out his ears any minute now. Catches himself staring at an indeterminate spot across the street and trying to regain his wits, and the will to live. 

Crumbs flutter to his sleeve and he flicks them away to the leaf litter, one by one. Frowns at the beginnings of a tear in his cuff, just beneath the buttonhole—needs mending again, damn it all. He’ll have to pull out his thread tonight, if he’s got any left.

“Ey, mista. You gonna finish that?”

A small girl appears from quite possibly the aether and settles herself in front of him, and Jacob glances down with a fond smirk. Looking between that mucky face with her tongue and teeth peeking out in hope, and the remaining two-thirds of the sausage roll he has waiting in his hand.

“When I could give it to _you_?”

She stops the jittery bounce in her legs and stares up at him, eager for his answer.

“Here.”

He hands over the pastry, and she’s keen to grab. Watching her devour it, he wonders to himself why the hell he allows kids, of all things, to consistently get the better of him. Although that’s probably a question for another time. And perhaps that Pluto bloke Evie’s always on about. 

Except that’s when he drifts his gaze towards the mansion, and nearly chokes on his own air:

 _Crawford Starrick_.

Three gaudy black and gold carriages pull up on the street slap-bang in front of him, and Jacob’s diving for cover before he even thinks about it. Vaulting back over the wrought iron railing and ducking behind a very thorny shrub, it’s stabbing him in the side but he has no time to care. 

_Evie’s in there_.

All he can think about is her trapped inside that house, and Jacob’s panic is exploding like the fifth of November. Sodding Bonfire Night where his nerves should be.

He hurries, still in a crouch, past the open archway and catches sight of a small battalion of Blighters leaving the cabs. Looks like they’re following Starrick inside. 

He’s got to warn Evie.

" _Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit_ —”

Stuffing his cap inside his jacket, Jacob pulls up his hood and gets to work: hopping back over the fence on the northwestern corner of the park, he’s stumbling across the narrow road to dive through the archway and into the garden. 

Pressing himself up against the outer wall, he scouts around for where he caught sight of an open window on the second floor. 

_Got it_.

Now it’s just a quick one-two haul up, and he’s swinging inside the building, legs over the sill: landing as silently as he can on plush carpet.

A tedious echo in the back of his mind admonishes him for landing flat-footed, causing the rug beneath a scarcely discernible shift, only _just_ but still noticeable. 

He didn’t land as Evie would, on her toes, soft as a mouse. 

Top of the class. Can do no wrong. 

_Better than you_.

Jacob snorts in disdain at the voice of his father, and stays low. 

Looks like he’s at the end of a long hallway, narrow and dim where it runs all the way through to the back of the house. 

Late afternoon sun pierces through the far window, rare shafts of light scattered across the walls, the floor—the whole manor bathed in muted, hazy shadows as Jacob slips through without a sound. Dust motes churn in the air around him, noiseless as a tomb.

The first door in the hallway is shut up tight. Odder still, no keyhole to be found for his pick. On any other day he’d consider having it off its hinges a matter of pride, but it’s not just any other day, this. He’s got a sister to warn.

Flattening himself against the gaudily-papered wall, Jacob drops to a crouch and closes his eyes, grounding bare fingers in the carpeting. He’s always been able to sense Evie this way, steadying his breath and just _reaching_ for her—like sending out a hand in the dark, and coming up lucky every time. Comes from sharing a womb, their nan always said, bonding them before life itself. 

His own kind of magick, he thought as a child; before life strolled in and stomped on all those little fancies. Now at least, a skill that’s never failed him no matter how poorly he’s done at everything else.

There’s a tug in his focus, a sudden burst of light—she’s _here_ , and unharmed. Thank Christ. Dimming as she moves further away, but her steps are measured; no trace of fleet or capture, and Jacob can breathe again.

 _Doesn’t mean she’s out of the woods though_.

Eyes snapping open, he continues down the hallway, past ornately carved chairs with well-worn velvet upholstery, small dusty tables, the odd high shelf with many an untouched book.

He comes to rest beside an imposing grandfather clock, craning his neck to find its face. Heavy, pendulous ticking bores into his skull, warns that he doesn’t have long to work before everything goes to shit.

The thought spurs him onward and Jacob drops, ducks in the next room. A library. No door in place, just an archway, and a single unwitting patrolwoman idly fingering through dishevelled book-spines. Turned away. 

Just so.

A quick jag to the neck with his favorite hidden blade does the trick. His right hand, clapped across their gaping mouth. Muffling gurgled screams as the life leaks out, hot and red all down his wrist. Jacob smiles.

Feels the kill in his fucking _teeth_ , coiled deep in his chest like a loaded spring, like a feral tod before the hunt.

He was _born_ for this.

The body drops slack and Jacob makes sure to drag it behind a smallish desk, obscured if you were to stand in the doorway and peek a gander into the room. 

Now alone Jacob takes in the rest of the study, sends a cursory glance about. Clocks a settee and a couple of chairs, someone’s afternoon tea going cold on a tray—he sidles close for a look, wiping red from his hands down the front of his coat.

“ _Don’t mind if I do_.”

Daintily lifting the lid of the sugar bowl, he licks then swipes two fingers through the fine white grains, sucking them clean with a pleased _pop_. 

He also grabs a piece of cold buttered toast with a copious slather of apricot jam already spread atop, and stuffs it in his mouth on his sauntered return to the doorway. 

Jacob can hear raised voices coming out in the hall. No, not the hall. Somewhere off it. 

Creeping only a few strides further, there, another doorway sits open that appears to lead onto the main grand staircase of the mansion. 

Below in the foyer he can snoop a large group of Blighters milling about. Their collective smarts couldn’t fill out a dance card, he muses to himself, between crunching bites of pilfered toast. But there are definitely far too many for him to take on at once, and in the middle of them all, the Grand Master himself: Crawford Starrick. 

Jacob can’t see Evie down there—or Greenie for that matter—but can sense that she's close. No panic about her. Which can only mean good things. He just hopes they’re off out the way, finding that stupid Shroud, and falling arse over tits for each other; all that romantic fluff she's into. 

The usual.

There’s a moment he allows himself to relax, dropping to the floor, jamming crusts in his mouth with a shower of crumbs and watching the show downstairs. 

This is a far sight more exciting than his job outside, he decides, licking jam off his thumb.

Naturally, that’s when everything goes to hell.

Starts with an auburn-haired bint barging into the place, Templar band flashing on her arm—Jacob knows that face, walked past it glaring back at him from the train wall for _days_ : a Miss Lucy Thorne, Starrick’s expert in the occult. Currently storming the room below and screaming like a house on fire.

“ _Assassins_! They’re in the building!” 

Oh, fuck. 

“You four, search the parlor!”

The rest of the circus is left floundering in the ring, a bunch of moth-eaten strays with nowhere to go. Until the ringmaster himself pipes up.

“The rest of you: search the place and _find_ them! I want no stone left unturned."

Starrick’s booming command shoves the remainder of his hysterical flunkies to compose themselves, scattering to every corner of the room and Jacob is suddenly, _keenly_ aware he should _not be here_.

Before he’s even on his feet some of the Blighters running up the staircase clearly catch sight of him. He manages to _just_ duck into the hallway as shots are fired, picking up the pace. A bullet narrowly misses his head, shatters the frame of an old oil painting instead.

Quickest way out is the way he came, the open window at the end of the long corridor; Jacob’s booking it for all he’s worth, breathing ragged and raw. He can already feel the cooling spring air on his cheeks, closer, _closer—_

But fate’s a fair-weather friend to Jacob Frye today, most days in fact, and that once-locked door from earlier bursts open in a rush of fuming Blighters, at least a half-dozen armed, and damn if those aren’t ugly odds.

Jacob pales and makes a hasty about-turn, audibly groaning at his five mates from the stairwell still on his arse, and _take a sodding hint, fellas._

He grits his teeth and braces himself, opting to charge straight at the slightly smaller crowd back the way he came, and happily recalling a half-open window in the study down the hall: _Escape_! 

The closest poor bastard goes out with Jacob’s first blade in his forearm, the second shunted straight up through his blocky jaw with a sickening _squish_. The next guy doesn’t spy his kukri unsheathe in time, sun blinding on the blade in a glinting flash and the man is slashed open from gut to collarbone in a fine red mist. Jacob ducks as the third dimwit takes a swipe at him so wide you’d think she was blind; dancing back on his heels as she stumbles forward.

“ _Mind the gap_!”

The patented Frye-Family punishment for that kind of cock-up is a swift kick to the back of the knee and a blade through the back; Jacob obliges both without hassle here and now. There’s not much to say about contestant number four other than he hopes they have a nice _trip_ ; to the morgue. And finally the fifth bloke is on him: a bruiser who grabs Jacob by surprise, sends him flying with a heavy left-hook. 

He’s slammed into the wall with enough force to see stars but manages to dodge a second punch, leaves a great dent in the discoloured wallpaper where his head used to be. Jacob sucks in a rattling breath and growls, throws all his weight forward to rush the guy, heaving their combined bulk into the grandfather clock behind. The clock face shatters on impact, an explosion of glass shards bloodying up the fella’s weighty bald head. The man screams loud and drives back too late, gives Jacob enough space to swing his wrist—one thrust upwards is all it takes to clean out the brute’s ear. 

Stumbling backwards, he gasps a shattered breath as the great devil drops like a sack of bricks at his feet. He has moments only to linger on the victory: more goons filtering up the staircase to his left. On his right, the gang from down the hall currently trampling over the dead and dying bodies of their fallen comrades, trying to get to him.

Jacob throws himself through the doorway into the study but just _barely_. 

It’s still not fast enough to escape the tackle from behind.

Meaty hands smash him into the wooden floor, shock forcing the air from his lungs just as sure as the fucking dead-weight on his back. Jacob thrashes desperately, tries to roll them off and reach his blade, heaving instead with the sudden crushing pressure at the nape of his neck. 

“‘Bout time we caught one of you bastards—let’s have some _fun_.”

Spittle flies at his ear from the tosser on his back, looming, and they’re shoving down even _harder_ now, rougher by the second; Jacob swears his neck’ll snap like a twig if they carry on, hissing pain through his gritted teeth and digging fingers in the boards and Christ, _fuck_ —

“ _Stop_ this!”

Just as abruptly as the pain took hold it vanishes, though now there are several sets of hands; prodding, groping, shoving all over him before he’s dragged up by the scruff of his coat and his hood is ripped down. Nearly stumbles again when the cold barrel of a gun is jammed into his temple. 

He’s manhandled around, turned to face the one and only Lucy Thorne. 

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t _gut_ you here and now. _Assassin_.”

They’re near enough the same height, but she still manages to look down on him. Her black leather coat shines like serpent scales, her thin nose pinched like she’s smelt something rotten. Probably her shriveled heart. 

Jacob doesn't falter, defiantly jutting his chin and matching her stare.

Thorne has an air about her that speaks of far too many sticks up her arse, a button-heeled boot periodically tapping the floor, like life itself has spent her patience. She scrutinises him coldly, top to tail with adder-like intensity. 

Jacob _hates_ snakes.

“I’m afraid I’m just a humble chimney sweep, Ma’am. At your service.”

Her black eyes narrow, darting between his hidden blades, one on each of his wrists painted red. Some bastard nicks his kukri from its sheath at his thigh, while another cow paws clumsily in his coat— _oi, watch it—_ and draws out the loaded pistol from Greenie, which he was _just_ beginning to enjoy. 

Taken together, they seem to be all the answers Lucy Thorne will ever need. 

“Are _all_ chimney sweeps this adept at murder?”

“No I’m _special_.”

She’s no longer looking at him, seemingly bored of his cheek, instead snapping orders to the legion of grunts that hold him still. Jacob tries his best to wrench free but the number of bodies is too much, even for him. Now _three_ he could take. Two would be a piece of piss. But that gun cocked point-blank against his head is definitely something else to consider in his odds.

Thorne gives him one last glance over her shoulder, a dismissal: Jacob bares his teeth in a honeyed sneer.

“Remove him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacob, lad. Next time leave the toast and get out of there.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Cooked pork/boiled eels** : just a couple of the foodstuffs Victorians had available to them on the street, by the 'fast-food' vendors of their time
> 
>  **Wren's spires** : a prominent feature of St.Paul's Cathedral. The cathedral itself was rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren after the Great Fire of London (in 1666), and the current church fully completed in 1711. At 365 feet, it was the tallest building in London from 1710 to 1963. It is often referred to as one of Wren's City Churches, hence 'Wren's spires', and the route you drive in-game for this mission goes straight past, hence Jacob noting them. As an extra amazing fact: there has been a church (or at least some religious building) on the site of St. Paul's since 604 AD!
> 
>  **Butter on the bacon** : Victorian slang for 'that's extravagant', said as a statement of excess 
> 
> **Anorak** : someone who has a very strong interest on one topic, a speciality. Imagine a Trekkie, if you will
> 
>  **The Flying Trapeze & Champagne Charlie**: two current and popular songs of the time. The former published in 1867, the latter in 1866.
> 
>  **Bonfire night** : Guy Fawkes Night; an annual celebration on November 5th to mark the foiling of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, in which Guy and his fellow conspirators failed to blow up Parliament. Brit's celebrate with bonfires (and nowadays fireworks)


	3. oh, to be alone with you

“Good morning, Mister Frye.”

The sack is unceremoniously ripped from his head and his bonds are cut, wrists rubbed raw and blinded by a harsh daylight he's not glimpsed since the mansion. Doesn't mean he's free; hands caught up by the great ugly bastard looming over him, stinking breath in his face. Jacob’s arms are yanked behind his back as he’s abruptly forced to his knees, held in place fast. 

Knelt on the ground with stones biting through his patched trousers, there are six or so Blighters in a half circle around. One clumsily cuts through his gag, with a serrated knife that’s _far_ too close to his face. 

And there’s Lucy Thorne standing right before him. Again.

“We really should stop meeting like this.”

With barely a glance to her left she silently informs one of her goons to strike Jacob across the face. 

Eh… he’s had worse punches from Evie, wrestling in the back garden at eight because she’d called him fat and he’d called her ugly. 

“I suppose you’re wondering how I’ve come to know your name?”

“Not particularly—”

“The Templars are far more established and well connected than your pathetic organisation pretends to be.”

“Oh, you _wound_ me.”

Another look and another punch.

“All in good time. Now. I know it was you and your blackguard of a sister two nights ago that lifted a certain book from our possession. Where is it now?”

Prior to even letting him fucking answer she flicks her wrist, and he’s come down on like a stampede in a glue factory. Four or five slugs this time and yeah, he’ll give them that. 

Those fucking hurt. 

“I… have no idea.”

He really shouldn’t have said anything at all (is going to be the title of his memoirs), because a word from her later and there’s another shower of fists—one’s _definitely_ using a duster—and then he’s spitting out a clog of blood. Aims for her pacing feet at the last second, and misses by a sodding mile.

He hears her _tsk_.

There’s no sound this time, no warning before he’s assaulted again. Taking it like he’s used to and mentally sending himself to the ring so he can bear it; imagining he’s up against an opponent with fucking fantastic odds… Jacob’s absolutely the underdog here. So much so he’s buried under the house.

“Maybe I’m not being clear enough: I _will_ kill you, _and_ your snivelling sibling, and string you both up as a warning to your Brotherhood. That will happen regardless. So choose the easy route for all our sakes and tell me where your base of operations lie.”

The more she mentions Evie, the less likely he is to confess to a bloody thing. And that likelihood was already at a solid naught when he was thrown in here.

“O-kay.” 

He hears her stop pacing to hiss out an irritable sigh. Good. Glad he’s got her full attention. 

These directions are tricky.

“So… you take “ _You’re A Cunt Lane_ ”, all the way down to ‘ _Bell End',_ n’ hook a right at ‘ _Over My Bastard Mouldering Corpse Road_ ’. You’ll know you’re there when, you see a huge ‘ _Fuck. You.'_ ”

He’s honestly expecting to be shot right then and there, but… nothing happens. Just an eerie, terrible silence.

Until.

“My patience is not limitless. _Unlike_ the pain you will feel if you continue to be uncooperative. I _will_ have the book you stole. I know you or your accomplices have it.”

A thick right hook kisses the side of his cheek, sends his head flying in the opposite direction. 

Jacob grits his teeth, unwilling to make a sound in pain or reveal any outright weakness. They’ll jump on it without remorse.

“I don’t like to repeat myself, Mr. Frye. Where. Is. _The_. _Book_?”

He takes a few seconds longer to catch a breath than he thought he’d need, stringing out his words to give himself space between each strike.

“Look lady. You honestly think, I can _read_? Look at me.” 

He manages to lift his bloodied head, enough to study her razor-sharp face in the harsh morning sun. Light splinters from what looks to be the one and only window cut out in this damn stone hellhole, burns his eyes like broken glass. She almost looks like she’s buying what he’s selling, though. Carrying on.

“And how _dare_ you imply, I’ve read even _one_ book, in my whole damn life.”

Deadly silence. 

Jacob feels his wary gut contract, manfully braced for his next thrashing, but then: a low, shocked snicker. And another, and _another_ , and he’s dragging his head up again, smirking wide and making sure the ill-humoured bitch can see it—her own Blighters, _laughing_.

“QUIET!”

Pissing her off still further is a fool’s crown of a plan, but honestly? He would do it again in a heartbeat. 

Although revisiting that _mistake_ thing, he’s realising it was perhaps a grave one when her guards stiffen, mirth wiped right off of their loathsome faces. She’s vindictive about it too; commands the star grunt who’s been abusing him to set a little garnish on top. Which translates to about three dense punches to the head, a kick in the chest, oh, and an extra flurry of boots to his stomach, just for laughs. 

Guy must be up for promotion. 

The hereditary cul-de-sac turns Jacob loose mid-strike, and he drops to the ground, curling in on himself and silently pleading for this all to end.

Just when he thinks his inner prayers have been answered and it’s time for another round of snapped questions, he’s startled when the same boot comes back again, digging into his belly and rib cage, causing what little is left in his stomach to instantly force an exit.

He had blood in his mouth earlier but a stray kick catches him in the face, he accidentally bites his tongue. Tasting fresh metallic and hot, he hunkers down even tighter, trying to disappear within himself and not feel _so much_ of this.

“STOP.”

The immediate grief halts with her screech, though when he tries to catch a breath, the taste of blood and bile make him gag.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Mr. Frye. And hopefully I’ll be able to provide you a family reunion.”

He lingers, unmoving, until every last thug has left his cell, the cage has been locked, and no one is present save himself.

 _Like hell_ she’ll catch Evie, or Greenie. Maybe Greenie. Jacob feels like that man would give himself up just to keep it all sporting and orderly. 

He laughs weakly at the thought of Henry doing just that, though it bloody aches to do so—then thinks of the man with Evie, regrouped back at the hideout. Probably forming a heady plan of attack. All ready to swing in here, guns blazing and swords slashing to bust him out this very day. 

And yet.

Time slinks in, a half-hour at least before doubt creeps at him from the edges, in the silence of the cell… 

...a _drip,_ _drip,_ _drip_ of the stagnant water he’s no doubt lying in... 

...a far off bellow from a steamer, they must be close by the docks…

...the scurrying of rats who share this cell… 

Maybe they don’t even think of him as missing. Maybe Evie assumes he’s gone off on one of his two-day binges. Touring the undiscovered pubs of London with his Rooks, or larking about with some whore back in Whitechapel. 

And the bitter thought of that breaks his stubborn reluctance to show any kind of frailty to anyone, even himself; curling his hands over his stinging eyes, he turns loose just two short racking sobs. Face less than an inch from the stinking floor of his shambling cell. Refusing to move.

He’s sure the rats won’t tell anyone. 

* * *

  
It’s been an indescribable amount of hours. Days, probably—he’ll be the first to admit he was never very good at keeping track of time. _Months,_ even, since his delightful visit from _Miss Thorne_. 

He’d like a one-on-one with her. Cowering behind the help. Rip those sticks right out her arse and shove them all the way down her venomous throat. 

Pacing back and forth like a wild thing, Jacob's crossed the one-and-a-half strides it takes to span his palace countless times, one side to the other. Been ages now. Two hours, at least. He thinks.

Beats being tied up, beaten, shoved around in pitch all night. 

Just barely. 

Felt like he was pushed and pulled from an innumerable amount of carriages and a never-ending number of locations. Every time the wheels stopped moving he was dragged out, thrown on the wet ground yet again, totally disoriented and kicked about, until he eventually wound up here:

Woken from a sleep that he didn’t recall agreeing to, head pounding like a motherfucker, and with at least one fractured (or is that broken?) rib.

Only come morning did they remove his binds, a preface to that delightful little chat of earlier.

Along with his lashings they took away his jacket and shirt, his bloody boots too—he now has only ratty socks, squelching into the stale water puddling the floor. And his threadbare, sleeveless vest is doing fuck-all to keep him from the chill.

Has he mentioned yet that he’s pissed off?

Cold stone and colder prospects, penned in here with no company but his own. Two buckets in the corner, far too close together for his liking—stale water in one, old piss in the other. 

How pleasant.

Still pacing like a bear with a sore arse, grunting and muttering to himself. He _hates_ standing still. Being unable to do _anything._ To help others or himself. And he can’t do either of those while he’s stuck in here. A bird caged.

He knows there are guards behind the closed doorway opposite his cell ‘cos he can hear them, see their shadows flickering underneath. 

They’re probably enjoying each other’s company, drinking. _Eating._ _God_ he wishes he was eating; that he was doing all three.

It's barely been a day since he ate but he's already feeling his stomach churning up a vile storm. Jacob's missed breakfast, elevenses _and_ noonsies. Now it's coming up to a dinner he's got an inkling he won't be having. Gut contorting, roiling and gurgling in protest, for something to be put inside it.

“ _WANKERS_! _HEY_! I’m in here. _Captured._ Remember? Can’t you at least feed me some mouldy bread! I’d even have my own cooking at this point...”

He’s yelled a few things already at the ignorant door. Desperately trying to elicit a reaction from those behind it. Good _or_ bad, he'll take it—and perhaps, a pity-meal?

Jacob keeps striding up to the bars and gripping them tightly. Lays his face against the stinging metal. It’s cold and feels good on his black eye, on his bruises. 

“Oh, won’t somebody _please_ talk to me?!”

Like he’s expecting an answer.

“Hey, Rat. You, with the short tail. I’m talking to you. Can you bring me some cheese?”

Despite angry hand gestures and theatrical pleading, the rat finishes washing its whiskers and darts off into the frigid darkness down the other end of the room. 

Gone.

Jacob snorts balefully, a trapped stallion desperate to quit the stable. But while he has his face still leant against the bars, he takes a nosey down that way: looks like five cells altogether, brick between each with a full wall of bars at the front to enter and exit from. Something he’s planning on doing _very_ shortly. 

“EXCUSE ME, _SIRS_! I’ll wager you my freedom if you come in here and I can _KILL YOU_!”

Silence hangs for however long it takes his patience to run out. Unsurprisingly, not long. 

He takes a breath, drooping, letting the single bar that runs horizontal pull its weight and hold him up. 

_Plink. Plink. Plink._

And there’s that damn dripping again. He can hear it and _only_ it, seen as no one else is paying him a blind bit of notice. 

Jacob casts about; bored, cold, hungry. He takes stock of his bruises and is left feeling worse. He searches for the source of the water driving him mad. Eventually spots it up in the top right corner, near the bars of his cell. Even in the murky light, he can see the brick of the walls has discoloured with years of filth and shit seeping down. Permeating the mortar… _weakening_ it.

Suddenly envigoured with a new burst of hope he leaps into action, literally: Jacob jumps up at the corner and grabs onto the bars near the musty, damaged wall, and _pulls._

Drags all his weight behind it with a pained grunt, limbs protesting after their tenderising of earlier. Despite the aches he’s trying with all his might and then some, pulling harder than he did on his sixteenth birthday; with that sweet lass in the Crown flashing big doe-eyes his way, _definitely_ up for it. 

Unlike _then_ , however, he does not succeed. Sliding down with a defeated groan, if the ground wasn’t so disgusting in here he’d relent to the ache pounding in his left leg and sit.

The bars only moved maybe two inches _at most_ ; brick crumbling encouragingly at first, and then, nothing. 

But—

Jacob Frye has never been one for giving in.

“HEY GUYS! I’ve got some jokes for you—you’ll love these. Why, is the devil riding a mouse, like one and the same thing?”

Jacob puffs a breath, allowing his audience to offer guesses of their own.

“...because it is _synonymous_!”

Silence.

“Okay, tough crowd. Got another, not to worry. _Why_ should the number two-hundred-and-eighty-eight never be mentioned in polite company? ...because it is _two gross_.”

More silence.

“Two gross, get it? Cos’ a gross is one-hundred-and-forty-four… of a thing...”

He glares at the door like it has personally affronted his honour by not opening, or at least laughing.

“ _WHY_ is a dog like a tree? ...because they both lose their bark once they're dead!”

Har, har. Worth a try, anyway.

Jacob sighs.

"Do you ever shut the feck up, or is this a permanent ailment of yours?"

Someone _finally_ answers and Jacob pops off, unthinking.

“It’s permanent.”

Wait.

As if on a music hall stage, he slowly tilts his head all the way to the left, craning a look out his cell and down the corridor. Strains his eyes to search the damp darkness where his rat friend scarpered, inching along the bars as far as he can, trying to see _anything_. Or anyone.

Is he _hallucinating_?

“ _...hello_?”

Nothing. 

“Who’s there?”

Silence, seemingly. 

“Make yourself known!”

Jacob frowns.

“I _know_ you’re there, you _plainly just_ spoke to me.”

He waits as long as he feels is necessary for an answer, which is about two winks. Then realises something. 

“ _Oi._ Why haven’t you said a damn thing the entire time I’ve been here? ... _HELLO_?”

A pause, and then:

“Sorry. We haven’t been formally introduced, and also I don’t care. Piss off.”

Jacob pales, soundly gobsmacked for one of the few times in his life. Affronted, even—and the bloke’s sore mood must be catching, for he demands in kind.

“Were you _burnt,_ as a child?”

Apparently so, with only silence answering back.

He says nothing else yet. Just thinks. Wondering what’s annoyed this guy into being such a cranky bastard. 

Jacob chooses his next words carefully, as though trying to coax a rabbit from its den with a freshly-plucked clover.

“Why’re you in here?”

Counting every beat of deathly silence, he catches a coughed laugh of disbelief from the furthest cell away.

“Killed a man who wouldn’t shut his gob.”

He’s already scowling by the time the threat lands. “I’d like to see you try.”

No response to that, but he didn’t really expect one. So. _Okay._ That approach didn’t work. Let’s try something new.

“You’d better be nice to me otherwise when I get out of here, I won’t bother taking you with.” 

That should do it.

“Can’t you leave _now_?”

This guy. Un-fucking-believable!

“Who the fuck pissed in your porridge, pal? Only trying to _talk_ to you.”

A breeze whips gently in from the single cracked window, and the pained sigh of the other bloke almost gets lost in the melancholy of the moment.

“Not much of a talker.”

Well. That’s fair, he supposes. Raising a slight smirk, Jacob scratches his prickling chin and plays coy.

“Me neither. Can’t you tell?”

“You don’t give up, do you.”

And there it is. A crumble of resolve. 

“No, I don’t. It’s one of my better qualities. Or so I’m told.” The silence that follows doesn’t seem so harsh, now. Or maybe it’s just in his addled reality. 

Either way. 

“Name’s Jacob. Jacob Frye.”

“Nice to meet you, Jacob Frye.” 

Oh boy, some semblance of manners.

“Welcome to Hell.”

Nevermind.

Jacob huffs and waves his white flag for now, head sagging. Propped fully against the bars with a creak of rusted iron, his willpower’s falling away from him like pieces of wet cake. 

He closes his eyes, thinks about anything other than the twinge in his side with every breath, or the throb of his leg like a bloody broken drum. In the quiet, the headache that’s plagued him since he arrived in this dump takes over. 

Maybe he’ll... just... sit down. 

He thumps against the floor in a hard landing, having chosen to rest close to the bars, in the far left corner of his cell. You know. Just in case the guy says anything else. He doesn’t want to miss it. 

Something drips again, echoes in the silence like an incessant beat, dragging out in an endless spiral of irritating quiet. Makes Jacob itch to tug at his hair, rip his vest, drag himself out from the sinking bog of his own head somehow.

“Neill.”

Eyes still shut, head tipped back, Jacob frowns.

“No. I’m sitting, _thanks_.”

“Theo Neill.”

Ah.

 _Victory._

“This doesn’t mean we’re mates, Frye.”

He smirks, rich enough to spike his tea. A shame _Theo_ can’t bear witness, but the man can surely hear the way Jacob slyly toys with every word, a mirror of their earlier exchange:

“ _Nice to meet you,_ Teddy.”

He’s returned a scoffing sound, but Jacob’s grin doesn’t falter.

“Or do you prefer Ted?” 

Nope.

“Theodore?” 

Guess not.

“I know. Tederick.”

“Get fecked,” Teddy says, almost pleasantly.

“Charming.” He’s feeling so much lighter now, not alone. Alone is the worst thing.

“So, how’s the food in this place? Two, three courses? I’m quite partial to dessert if I absolutely _must_ choose.”

“Going on five days in here, Frye. Haven’t seen so much as a crust of bread.”

 _Five days_. Bloody hell. Makes no wonder he’s as bad-humoured as a bear losing its bile.

“Sorry, mate.” 

And there’s not really much else he can say, or do. Even though he wants nothing more than to be able to _do_ something, feel useful again.

He tries to cheer the guy up. 

“Hey, when we’re out of this shithole, I’ll get us dinner at The Grenadier.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

The dispirited chuckle that floats alongside Teddy’s reply has Jacob not knowing if he should be pleased or dejected. He shifts a bit, to face the bars, staring through them and out into the darkness of the empty cell opposite, but not really. Just in his own lost world. 

Hugging an arm around his middle, as a shiver runs through him like a blade.

“Tell me they at least left you with all your clothes.”

“They did. Ready to eat my bloody boot.” 

“Good.”

“They take yours?”

A brief but charmed smile crosses Jacob’s mug; that’s the first sincere question Teddy’s asked. 

“Took my jacket, waistcoat, overshirt.” He sighs, “—Gloves _and_ cap. And my boots.”

“ _Christ_.”

"Had that fucking cap since I was twelve. Love it." He's more talking to himself than Teddy, brow furrowed up at nothing. “Not to mention my weapons.”

“Can’t imagine why they took those.”

Jacob almost laughs. “You know, you’re funny when you try. You should try.”

“And you’re almost bearable when you’re quiet.”

He does laugh then. Doesn’t regret the twinge in his rib cage. “You sound _just_ like my sister.”

“Poor girl.”

“Poor _me._ She’s as mardy as you are _without_ being shut in a cage.”

“Lucky it’s you here, then.”

Jacob sighs, contented for what it’s worth. Glad that she isn’t here, that Evie’s safe back at the hideout with Henry. They’ll be looking for him come morning. He’s certain of it. And there’s no way in hell she would have annoyed this guy into talking, probably never realised he was even here. 

Poor sod.

“Yeah. You are.”

Hearing Teddy shifting about back there, he opts to keep quiet, not knowing what injuries the man has. He’s been here five days, Jacob only one. And a bit. If Teddy’s had enough then he’s had enough, Jacob certainly has, for now.

“Goodnight, Frye.”

He stops mid-shuffle in his attempt to get comfortable, bare shoulder scraping brick wall. He glances behind, out the too-bright window. If you can call it a window. And scoffs.

“It’s not even teatime yet!”

“ _Goodnight,_ _Frye._ ”

Jacob _tuts_ and rolls his eyes, hopefully loud enough for Teddy to hear. The bloke won’t shunt him off so easily tomorrow.

“G’night, _Ted_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think that writing Lucy Thorne was fun, then you are absolutely correct! She's an evil bitch and I love her.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Jacob's jokes** : believe it or not, those are actual jokes from the Victorian era. I chose the worst ones because of course Jacob would have memorised those for posterity
> 
>  **The Grenadier** : a public house located in Belgravia, London (fancy!). Originally built in 1720 as the officers' mess for the British army. It was opened to the public in 1818 as The Guardsman and was subsequently renamed in honour of the Grenadier Guards' actions in the Battle of Waterloo (fought in 1815). You can still go there today


	4. idealism sits in prison

It’s truly not his finest morning, Jacob will admit.

Waking with a face full of slimy brick and realizing he’s still ears-deep in the barrel of shit that is his current situation. Although, judging by who you’d ask, it is _possibly_ not his worst.

The crick in Jacob’s neck is his first gripe, and then his pitifully-empty stomach, before the gaggle of others follow suit like ugly ducklings.

Blearily looking around his cell, he rubs at his eyes to wipe the crust from them, only just remembering his left has most likely turned a nice rosy purple, going by how painful it feels to the touch.

Surprisingly, the aching rib of yesterday has subsided and it doesn't hurt to breathe. He’s moving on up in the world.

A splash in his drinking bucket yields water so absolutely foul, Jacob near-gags it back up in a heaving mess. Forces himself to keep it down, swallowing twice.

He’s absolutely fucking freezing, skin stinging to the touch even as he attempts to warm himself, goosefleshed to hell. He had hoped his socks would have at least dried out a little too, but no. Sodden, filthy, and ruined. ...would it be worse to take them off? Or leave them on, damp?

Suddenly, he laughs. 

But it’s not his usual, not joyful. 

It’s broken. 

Stuck in a cell where no one who cares knows his whereabouts, on the rough end of a beating (and he’s sure another one is on the way), bloody, freezing and dank, hungry, thirsty, and with the least talkative cellmate this side of a sodding corpse. 

And here he is, the heroic Jacob Frye, deciding whether or not to take off his wet socks. 

The fact he laughed, even ironically, somehow makes him even more dejected.

Partially self-induced melancholy aside, at least he’s right about one thing: his next beating just arrived.

It’s in the form of a hollow clang as the main door to the room opens, and he can see one, two, three Blighters waddle in like little toy soldiers. Thorne’s toy soldiers, he thinks grimly.

But now is not the time for that: _now_ is the time for Jacob to haul himself stubbornly to his feet, ignore every single ache and ailment in his body because he’s at his wit’s end, but these tossers are not going to get the better of _him_! 

As soon as the door to his cell unlocks and there’s a gap, he’s charging at it, taking the first guy by surprise with an elbow to the side of his half-witted skull. The man yelps as his head crashes into the bars of the door.

Second guy is right behind the first but he’s a bit bigger, which calls for a knee to the gut and a pretty solid right hook if he does say so himself. 

Doesn’t knock the bloke out however, but before he can rectify that Jacob has to duck in order to dodge a knife swinging his way from the third guy. It misses and slashes the second goon in the arm— _amateurs_ —making him howl and Jacob grin.

Blighter Number Three’s swipe knocked themself off balance; it only requires Jacob to shove the guy into the brick wall ahead. 

Now, all it'll take is some running, ducking, diving, more running, and he’s out, free—the door is open and _right there_. _He’s free. Free. Free... him._

Teddy. 

_Personal feelings compromise missions_ drones a voice in his head, turns Jacob’s bubbling elation into something suddenly fucking _feral_.

“Fucking _shit in a handbasket!”_

Warning the voice of Father reverberating inside his skull to _stay dead_ , Jacob’s panicking; but with just over two decades of dodgy luck under his belt, he’s honed plenty of frantic, giddy optimism. He works best on the fly, here goes:

Gotta knock them all out, pinch the keys, grab his lad before they escape. Okay, shouldn’t be difficult. These two idiots are already halfway there and he took care of the first guy. 

Now, Jacob’s been wrong before, too often and too many times to count (Evie probably has an encyclopaedia, she quotes from it too regularly not to), and it’s sort of a running joke with himself, that he seems to be wrong at the worst times about the _most important things_.

Such as that first Blighter being knocked out.

They aren’t.

A thin wire slips over his head and he’s yanked back _hard_ , garrotting him. He gasps, claws foolishly for the taut line itself, scratching his own neck while the rope burns into his throat, cutting off his air.

He’ll never tell her this, he’d rather bloody choke—but when he’s in these sorts of no-win, you-absolute-fucking-numpty situations, Jacob has a list of Evie quotes he skims through mentally, as if choosing the winning hand with one swift flick—

_Sometimes you have to look behind the curtain, Jacob. You take things as they come, not as they are._

_Cheers, sis._

Interpreting that, he gets to work:

Jacob lets go of the garrote and instead grabs the goon’s hands, back over his head to capture them, wrenching their solid weight forward while a swift kick to the balls goes backwards. 

They’re down and definitely out now, but unfortunately in the interim Lackeys One and Two are back on their feet and raring to go.

Jacob doesn’t have time to block the sizable fist that belts him in the face, slammed to the floor like kneaded dough and _feeling_ like it. 

His last thought before he’s dragged back to his cell and given a beating even worse than his bout with Lucy Thorne, is, _oh well, it was worth a try._

* * *

“Frye.”

Jacob’s first bleary thought is something like _Shit_ , followed swiftly by the feeling that he’s been tipped head-first down a stack on the Thames.

“ _Frye_.”

Ears ringing like Big Ben gone noon, Jacob blinks, but sees only muzzy grey. Decides to close his eyes again, maybe it will help the pain. 

It doesn’t.

“Mate, have they killed you?”

Not sure if he’s hearing right, but he thinks that voice is Teddy. Still in his cage then. 

“ _...think so_.”

Craning his neck to see the bars of his prison, Jacob’s world is blurred but coming clearer. He’s been left in the centre of the cell, a heap of limbs and regret. He coughs and spits out a tooth, a tiny white pearl clattering over the damp stone floor, rolling to rest just out of reach.

“The feck happened in there?”

Jacob starts slowly dragging himself to the edge of his cell, through shallow puddles of stale water. His right arm is dislocated, he’s sure of it. Gonna have to pop that back in soon, otherwise it will swell, be impossible to patch without a helping hand. Oh yes, he’s well-versed in this dance.

“We… had a bit of a chin-wag. Got to know them. The usual.”

Teddy laughs, raspy and low.

“Some chin-wag.”

Jacob huffs a pained exhale, shoving back against the wall until he’s sitting vaguely upright. Gives himself a well-earned moment.

“There was a slight disagreement. I’m sure you heard.”

“Bit too well.”

He grunts in accord when he shoves up to his feet, using the wall to steady himself. The world wants to tip sideways whilst he does _not_. 

“If it’s any consolation, you broke the bastard’s nose.”

“I think he got me back for that. _One moment_ —” Teddy was clearly party to his second beat-down in as many days, trapped as they are like this: Jacob’s past caring if his cellmate hears his harsh gulp of fetid air, the grunt before he _slams_ himself into the brick wall, agony tearing the cry from his teeth. Fucking hell, his shoulder is _burning_ and he does it again, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes but that’s it, Christ’s wounds, the bone’s back in its socket. _Done._

Chest heaving, Jacob swipes a wrist across his filthy face and comes to lean heavily on the wall, filling his lungs with deep, shuddering breaths. With a clearer head, he allows himself the beginnings of a smug grin.

“He failed to break mine. Didn’t want to ruin this pretty face.”

“That must be it.”

His smile stays, despite Teddy’s mocking tone. And then it sounds again.

“From what I hear, they’re quite taken with you.”

“Well, they’re only human. Can’t fault them for that.”

“You born with brass balls, or were they a gift?”

Jacob laughs, inching closer to the cell bars and lowers himself to a painful sit, grin closer to a wince.

“I grew them myself. You should try it sometime.”

“Bold words from a man whose life’s led here.”

Well… the guy’s not wrong in his observations. And since Jacob’s currently in good spirits despite the circumstances, he trails a wistful sigh, tone pleasant as a summer’s breeze.

“ _Ohhh_... _fuck off_.”

Teddy’s shaky chuckle leads into quiet nothingness, till only the incessant drip from the roof and the far-off murmur of life chugging along the Thames are left. 

Now with no conversation to occupy him, Jacob turns his gaze to his forearm, the sizable tear running down its length. The skin around is littered with smaller slashes, but that thick gash will need stitches. The more he stares at it the more a constant prickle of pain flares up, so he looks away, eyes squeezed shut. 

It was self defence, wasn't like he was _trying_ to catch a blade in the arm (he can hear Evie in his head arguing the contrary). If he'd had his gauntlet on, that would have taken the brunt of the damage, but now… he's got nothing to protect him. 

And those bastards reveled in the fact. 

There's a myriad of new bruises that will be showing up later too. His chest aches like he’s been cracked in the sternum, _and_ he’s gained a nice juicy split lip to boot. He's becoming quite the collector. 

Jacob finds himself cruelly pondering the sort of injuries Teddy likely has. The guy’s been in here going on six days now, they must have visited him a fair few times. But again, he can’t be anything to do with the Brotherhood, right? Surely Henry would be informed of any additional Assassins sent to London, and have told Jacob and Evie about it. Or at least Evie. Which is no good to him now. 

Possibly he should attend Henry’s briefings more often.

He mentally wanders a return to the subject of his cellmate back there, already owning a rough amalgamation of what he _thinks_ the man is, looks like. 

Freddy’s age, if not older: Teddy absolutely sounds world-wearier than the copper, if that’s possible. Taller too, and bulkier. Not quite Jacob-bulky, but not exactly Ned-thin either. Probably an all-rounder then, like George. Even though Georgie-boy's a bit chunkier than Jacob finds fit. A sort of generic model of a man, one you’d never spot in a crowd, or really care to (he’ll tell that thought to Evie later, get a laugh out of her).

Jacob did catch the lilt of an accent in there, on some of Teddy’s words and drawled at the ends of things he says. Not London-born, that voice. At first it reminded him of Bald Ben from Ballygreen, fella he sometimes sees at Bob Topp’s Whitechapel locale. Usually wins with a knockout in the first round.

 _Ugly_ bloke. Nice voice though. 

Teddy being in here too, a lock-up for Templar wrongdoers, he’s gotta have a regular-chap type of _look_ about him. An all-encompassing, common-criminal mug. Jacob's imagining a composite of all the shady blokes he's dealt with since coming to London: nothing much to look at, but a decent guy nonetheless. Sort of man you’d grab a drink with. 

He sighs.

Not that he _wants_ the truth. He wants to imagine Ted just how he likes 'em. Bloke's already got the accent, now just give him that lithe body, a twinkle in his eye as he drops to his knees and the job's certainly a good 'un. 

More fool him, thinking this way now. As if he’s ever made it with a guy past one messy, regrettable suck-off in a Crawley back alley.

He just doesn't have that sort of luck. Fumble or otherwise. Bloke _or_ lass. 

Jacob doesn't know what he wants. Well, he _does_ , has for years. No one else seems to know he wants it, is the problem. Can't exactly advertise he wants to give it, take it from a bloke.

Finding himself briefly crestfallen with the thought of it all, he chides himself—and the semi hanging in his trousers, ears burning as the silence whiles away. 

Subtly adjusts the placket of his fly and ignores it, embarrassed with himself and glaring at the grime-soaked walls.

Is he really so desperate? _Christ_. Imagining a prison cellmate he’s never seen and getting stiff; now _there's_ a staggering new low for Jacob Frye.

To cool the heat in his ruddy cheeks and ease his conscience, Jacob tilts his head at the bars and shouts.

“Hey, Ted? You still there?”

Having Teddy grumble something back will do the trick.

“No, Frye, I’ve _gone_.”

There it is. 

“And you didn’t take me? I’ll never recover.”

“I’ll remember you fondly.”

Jacob smirks, already a shade too keen on every biting reply Teddy’s got waiting for him. But, thinking back, and unable to help himself…

“What’s your age? Twenty-five? _Thirty_? Old man I bet.”

“What’s it to you?”

Jacob licks his split lip, gives it a go.

“I’ve got a mishmash of a guy in my head and I want to know what he looks like; who I’m talking to.” There’s that foolish, thrice-damned _hope_ gnawing at the nape of his neck, the barest hint of interest there in Teddy’s cadence beckoning like a feast. Spurring him on. “Humour me.”

There’s another long pause, like the man has stilled to silence. Jacob can wait.

Finally:

“Twenty-five, yeah.”

 _Ha_! He was right. 

“I guessed that. I’m comin’ up to twenty-one. In November.”

“Remind me to buy you a pint.”

Jacob has to hold his breath to even hear Teddy’s answer, frowning at the sudden lapse in his friend’s pluck.

“You alright, Ted?”

He waits a fair while, breath held again.

“Yeah, Frye. ‘M alright.” 

There’s a muffled splash, a choked gasp. Like Teddy’s gone to wash his face in a stale bucket. 

Jacob’s frown deepens, even when the splashing stops.

“...said you had a sister?”

Ah. Deflection. He bites.

“Yeah. Pain in the arse. Wouldn’t swap her for anything. _You_?”

“Nuh. Just me.”

“How’s that? Sounds like a blissful dream.”

“ _Quiet_.”

Good. He can hear a hoarse laugh from Teddy’s cell, somehow the most _real_ he’s heard in a long time. Feels like the sweetest sort of win.

“Soz. I’m ruining that, aren’t I.”

Jacob’s not sorry at all. 

“I’m getting used to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prison cell self reflections on your illegal sexuality are the absolute worst. I hate when they happen.
> 
> And if you haven't noticed by now that all my chapter titles are Hozier lyrics then I forgive you.
> 
> This time.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Stack** : a funnel on a ship
> 
>  **Chin-wag** : a talk, conversation
> 
>  **Mug** : face


	5. god looks on in abject apathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***The graphic depictions of violence warning is for this chapter***
> 
> "That doesn't count as a spoiler." The writer tells themself.

Since his shit-kicking of yesterday, Jacob and Teddy have done nothing but talk.

Or perhaps more accurately; Jacob has talked, energetically and at length, about a great many things: his old life back in Crawley, his six favourite kinds of pie. The time he and Evie liberated a henhouse, then got chased into a brook. Ted’s added the spare sly retort, a few tired laughs. A clever line or five, and Jacob’s all the fonder of him for it—although his last few tales have been somewhat lacking in the response department.

Maybe Teddy’s dozing. 

Jacob slept for a fair spell, while it was dark. With no sense of time in this hollow hell, he’s no way to tell how long.

No matter, either way. Jacob’s content to sit in the quiet with his shiny new mate, regain his energy. Resolve to try something else next time there’s an opportunity. He won’t give up.

He can’t.

“Oi, Ted?”

Jacob hears an acknowledging grunt, to continue. 

“You got any injuries I need to know about?”

There’s a slight pause followed by a soft, bitter chuckle.

“You gonna play nursemaid, Frye?”

Jacob ignores that, serious for once.

“Can you walk? Fight, if you have to?”

“Not likely. Threw my ankle when they grabbed me.”

“...damn.” He airs his disappointment to himself, not wanting Teddy to hear it and make the man’s mood any more dim. 

“Doubt I could stand if you asked me to.”

Jacob runs through an escape in his head, scratching his chin and absently picking off crusted blood. Wondering if he could _carry_ Teddy out, or at least provide a shoulder to lean on. 

Really though, it stands as the least of their problems.

“No need to worry, Ted. I got it sorted.” 

“You still plan on getting out.” 

It’s not a question. Jacob furrows his brow.

“You think I plan on staying in here until they break my neck, or starve to death?”

There’s such a silence that Jacob thinks that’s the end of that. So he rests his head on the wall and shudders out a breath, one he can almost see in the frigid air of their prison. 

“I _think_ ,” Teddy finally says, voice pinched and odd, “That I’m goin’ to have to listen while they break your neck. Or kick your teeth in, or maybe both, they seem the feckin’ type. And then I’m gonna be the one who starves to death. That’s what I think.”

The thick, _angry_ edge of Teddy’s Irish leaps out, smacks Jacob in the face like a slap after closing. Leaves him stunned and blinking at the outburst, at the fact Teddy even _cares_ if any of that happens to Jacob. 

A perfect stranger.

Absently running his tongue over the fresh gap in his mouth, gum still tender from where he’s already lost a tooth by their hands. 

Honestly, he doesn’t know how to rebuff that. Because the more Jacob thinks on it, the more he runs the situation and its ever-dwindling number of outcomes over in his exhausted mind. And in doing so, the bright light of escape inevitably dims, flickers and fades like a taper snuffed out, till all that’s left for him is a long, slow death in the hands of the Templars.

But what good would giving up do?

Jacob wants to shove his head through the bars, rattle his cage and _snarl_ at the man, that _he’s_ not going to give up, not going to wait here to die like a calf led to slaughter. He wants to scrape and howl like a man unhinged, spook Ted into one last sweet shock of self-preservation—whatever it fucking takes, to fight their way out of this hell.

It wouldn’t help either of them, he knows. 

So Jacob bites his tongue until he bleeds, and chooses to think of something else. Anything else, other than dying in here.

Alone.

* * *

  
  
It’s been hours since the two cellmates have said a single word to each other.

Jacob’s been trying his damnedest to think up topics to keep himself occupied, stop his mind spiraling as it tends to do in awful silence: hasn’t been a very fruitful endeavour, shockingly.

He’s just been going backwards and forwards in his head (and his cell, pacing), sliding from the one extreme of ‘ _I'm breaking out of here_ ’ to ‘ _I’m going to die in here_ ’. Evie would honestly be proud by how many plans, tricks and solutions he’s formed and dashed in that time. He’s thoroughly impressed with his own lack of progress.

Maybe he should speak to Teddy.

Say _something_. 

The guy deserves the hope pushed back in his heart, no matter how much he doesn’t want it there. Jacob could hear it, knew he’d planted something. Only his new friend had rejected it.

He doesn’t blame him, really. If Jacob was in his situation he’d have broken down days ago. No family to speak of and he hasn’t mentioned any friends? Not to sound big-headed but, seems Jacob’s all he’s got right now. 

Poor bloke.

Rather suddenly, the main prison door screeches on its hinges and swings open with a hefty echoing _thump_ against the wall, casting a large pool of muted yellow light into his cell from the other room. 

Jacob squints, caught out in the middle of the space, and with a sinking heart watches over a dozen or so men pile in, red and black uniforms all. 

Guess escape’s not on the menu this time.

He resigns himself to this, but doesn’t wither. He’s a Frye. Stands proudly where he is and waits for them as they unlock the door.

 _Clever_. They’ve learnt to send in the biggest blokes they have first. Guess they don’t want a repeat of yesterday.

Jacob braces for the pain and he’s gotta give it to the old lads, they don’t disappoint. Two six-foot-plus brickshithouses storm in, but only one is needed to send him straight to the floor with a single punch.

He’d usually be able to weather that and land a punch of his own in kind, but in this state?

No chance. 

He takes a few kicks to the gut and one to the chin before he’s roughly pulled up, shoulder screaming.

Through half-lidded eyes he sees more of them moving, hulking in the cell door and rolling something with them.

Looks like a barrel, wooden, metal hoops and a great dirty black Templar stamp burnt into the side.

It’s picked up, then slammed _hard_ into the floor, reverberating through his pounding skull as he’s dragged towards it. His stomach drops suddenly, wants to retch once the possibility is triggered in his mind.

The only way he’s going to get through this is if he makes light of it. He tells himself.

“ _At least._.. _buy me dinner first_... _lads_?”

His jest falls on deaf ears but he’s consoled anyway, as only his head is slammed flat to the top. Left cheek ground into the rough grain, his black eye protesting against the pressure—

Suddenly the cell goes quiet, and the thugs in his eyeline shuffle back like chastised nuns. 

His head is forced down harder now, the twat’s got his fingers buried in Jacob’s matted hair, pulling it tight to keep him in place. Two more meaty hands are holding both of his own at his back. He can’t see that guy but it must be the second bruiser from before.

He _thinks_ he hears a _dog bark_.

Then, all at once, it shines clear.

Walking down a corridor littered with boot-licking sycophants, Blighters and Templar lieutenants alike, Lucy Thorne strolls right on in like she owns the bloody place. 

She probably does.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Frye.”

“Not from where I’m looking.”

“And why would I care about that?”

She waves a hand and Jacob feels his right arm released from the tight clamp at his back. Someone much stronger than him pulls it round to the front and slams his palm into the barrel top, inches from his face.

“I was _displeased_ to hear of your eventful morning yesterday.”

“A shame _—you_ couldn’t attend.”

“How droll.”

The bastard pinning his wrist reaches back for something, but Jacob’s unable to see exactly what’s going on, confused by all of this. Blighters are chuntering things to each other behind him, he can't focus on them _and_ this bint at the same time. 

“I’ll make this quick: our first session wasn’t particularly fruitful, and I am not the type of person who fails to get results.”

Jacob’s too busy watching a fucking _meat cleaver_ flash before his eyes to listen to the rest of whatever she’s prattling. The blade glinting in the light above his head before it’s flung down with a vicious _slam_ into the wood between his ring and little finger, splintering it. 

_Oh... no._

Panic is beginning to set in, and it doesn’t take a man of Darwin’s intellect to suss out what’s happening here. And he struggles, attempting to fight against the hold they have fast on him, to get loose _somehow_ —

“I-if you think I know _anything_ about _getting results,_ you’re _sadly mistaken_!”

“Mistaken? I am never _mistaken_.”

The cleaver is dragged slowly closer, so it’s resting on the skin between the two fingers, grinding down. He can feel the sharpened edge cutting already—

“Now. I will ask you five times. If you fail to answer, you lose part of your hand. Is that clear?” 

_Can he please wake up now._

_This joke is not funny anymore._

“I really don’t know—a thing! I don’t pay attention to that stuff— _I swear_!”

“I don’t believe you. First question—”

His wrist is gripped even tighter than before, pinned to the barrel and there’s truly no way out of this except spilling his guts about everything; the Assassins. His Rooks. Agnes. Henry.

 _Evie_.

"Where in London, are the Assassin headquarters located?"

Honestly she could have started off with an easier one, like _What's your favourite colour_? 

It's green, by the by. 

Of course the big fish is in her sights, but Jacob’s not biting. If she thinks he’s going to answer _that_ then she can go swivel on a ship’s mast. 

Then, he has a strange moment of calm realisation… and finally, resolve.

If this is going to happen regardless, as he clearly cannot escape, and turning in his sister is not an option under _any_ circumstance on this good green earth, why give it a half measure? 

Fuck it. And this bitch.

“Go. _FUCK_. Yourself.”

His reply is spat out at her. Watching those dead eyes when she gives the silent order. 

Time seems to stand still and speed up, all at once.

Jacob’s never really _screamed_ before in pain. Sure, he cried when he broke his leg at thirteen falling through a shed roof (and _barely_ missed a pitchfork propped up and pointing skywards), or when Evie forced his wrist back a bit _too_ far arm-wrestling a year later (he can still hear the _snap_ ), but truly, nothing like this.

If he has to choose, he decides the worst part is the blade slicing through tendons and feeling them _break_ —but then the blade shears his knucklebone in half, and that definitively takes the biscuit.

Screaming and not having the decency to feel ashamed about it, he’s watching the moment the little finger on his right hand is removed and thrown to the floor. Blood gushes through its ghost and _he sees bone_ and _sinew_ … and blood, _so_ much fucking blood.

Jacob pins a first-place ribbon on his stubbornness, because honestly it’s the only reason he's still conscious. Later he’ll think that Evie would be chuffed to know he didn’t pass out. But there’s no time for that here and now.

“Let’s try again.”

“ _Oh_ … _sod off_.”

He feels like he can’t breathe, barely gets that out. His eyes are wet and he curses that damn water dripping from the ceiling in here, it’s the only thing it can be.

“ _Where_ are the Assassin headquarters located?“

He snarls, glaring fire at her, shoving all the pain and agony he’s feeling into his hatred.

“ _I would not tell you_ —for all the riches in _London_! _Let alone… my freedom_.”

Thorne laughs, _titters_ to herself, and Jacob’s stricken.

“Oh, _Jacob_. I’m not offering you freedom. Only a less painful way to die.”

And then his ring finger is cut off.

Boy, if you thought that having your smallest finger severed was painful, you should have it happen to your ring finger next! 

It’s thicker, and stronger, and there’s more of everything that was in its smaller pal to slice through. Which turns out to make it hurt more but at the same time... _less_? Already going through the agony of losing his first, and now this piles on top. 

The blade is already drenched in blood, like all he has in him is clotting in a sick, sticky pool atop the barrel. He’s screaming again, heavy and wretched, body jolting with the need to get away. 

Jacob’s barely able to think of anything but the pain, and _why this is happening to him_ , he was enjoying a nice mosey in the park and stuffing sausage rolls in his gob not long ago. 

_Bloody hell, how he wishes Evie was here._

“Mr. Frye, I’m beginning to tire of this.”

He doesn’t even answer, can’t, too busy staring at the hand clamped tight around his wrist and Jacob is _missing two fucking fingers_. They’re on the floor in a stinking puddle and he’s up here, slicked in blood and snot and drool from clenching his teeth, feeling bile rise up and choke his throat.

He can still _feel_ them, he’s moving them both as usual—but there’s nothing _there._ Only blood and bone and hurt.

He’s lost _two_ , he can’t lose any more; who’s ever heard of a one-handed Assassin? How can he climb missing his fingers? Even if there was a previous Assassin that lost theirs, he wouldn’t know, never listens to that boring history tripe, but surely Evie would have told him that gruesome detail. It’d be a helpful thought, if he could remember it. 

And now his _life’s_ becoming a gruesome detail: doomed to be a cautionary tale, a footnote in the Assassin’s creed for future generations to read about, scoff at, then forget. 

Lucy Thorne is talking again and he doesn’t give a flying rat’s-arse, glassy-eyed as the sound fades out around him, pulse thumping hollow in his own ears. His vision is swimming, unable to focus. His mangled hand’s a blur. 

Shock. He’s going into shock, he thinks dully, gasping around the blood in his teeth while everything ebbs away, then back again. 

_Think_.

 _What would Evie do_ — _Evie_ would _know_ —she _always knows_ —

 _Fucking think, you sorry bastard_ , his head supplies, and Jacob’s clawing the soaked grain with broken nails, tears leaking from his eyes. He feels the cleaver line up to take off the next.

He makes himself do this, because he has no other option.

“ _Langley_.”

“What?”

“ _Warehouse at Langley Street... off Long Acre._ ”

The bite and tug of fingers in his hair, dragging his face up to the light. Jacob barely feels them.

“Yes?”

“ _Number five_.”

All pretense gone, he lets the world slide. Hears only scuffing boots on stone and snapped commands for the next few seconds, or are they hours, passing him by? 

The pressure on his head falls away, his wrist set free: with nothing holding him up, Jacob slides off the barrel and hits the floor. Under normal circumstances that would have hurt, smacking his head on the stone ground, but now? 

He’s underwater.

Can’t hear anything useful, but then he doesn’t want to. People looming over him keep wavering in and out of focus; their words as indistinguishable as their faces. Maybe it's easier if he swims down... 

He draws his hand up in staggered motions towards his chest, to clutch it tightly, protectively like a broken baby bird. Encircling his wrist with his uninjured hand to steady the shaking up his entire arm. 

He’s not opened his eyes in a painful amount of time—he doesn’t want to look again, to see _it_ —it’s not real, it can’t be. He might be sick if he sees it. Might faint. What would Evie think of him then? He did faint once before, when a guy at the Nag’s Head broke his leg and it bent a full quarter turn in the wrong direction. They were only eleven but she still teased him. Wouldn’t shut up about it for months.

Despite his lay on the floor, unmoving, Jacob manages to feel it; a blackening at the edges of his vision, threatening to swallow him whole. Desperate to escape, his mind is begging peace from so much _feeling_ , so much hurt...

The dark comes for him.

He gets his wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?
> 
> ...don't look at me like that.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Chuffed** : pleased
> 
>  **Langley Street** : located just west of Covent Garden


	6. boys, workin on empty

Without a single solid or cohesive thought, Jacob opens his eyes.

He has no idea how long it’s been since he was last conscious. Doesn’t care. All he knows is his entire arm feels numb, but it’s doing naught to stop the pain.

Jacob’s lying facedown on the rotten floor, his body curled, a broken heap. Then he recalls having two of his fingers removed with a fucking butcher’s knife. 

“Frye, mate. Talk to me.”

He thinks he’ll give in, to that darkness again. It hasn’t left since he woke, only lessened, but now it’s threatening to return... he thinks he’ll take it up on the offer. Has to be more welcoming than whatever this waking torture is.

“Come on, they can’t have killed you yet.” 

As he slips into some semblance of peace, the pounding in his ears subsides and a trickle of something different is dotted through. A stark contrast against the muddied background noise… familiar and, pleasant.

“ _Feckin’ bastards_.” 

_Teddy_. Teddy. It’s him… but he wasn’t talking to Jacob before... they weren't speaking...

“Frye. Mate?” 

Jacob rolls his eyes back in his head to stare through the empty, looming bars of his cell. He’s half-expecting to see Teddy standing there. 

“Jacob. _Please_.”

“ _Ted…_ ”

“Shite, Frye. Thought you’d kicked it.”

Jacob doesn't feel any need to answer, only lingers in the words with a thud in his chest. Warm, with the thought that Teddy cares enough to ask about him. It's a comfort.

“Talk to me, man.”

Was Teddy _there_? He can't remember. If he was… they'd have hurt him to get to Jacob...

“How’s your hand?”

"...there's less of it."

Staring at the bloodied subject itself, still slightly shaking, his grief flares up ferociously, hovers dangerously close to something like full-blown panic before plummeting down to hell. It goes with a grudging, miserable acceptance, finally grinding him up, and spitting out his bones. 

He's latching onto Teddy’s voice once more, detached: something something, something Irish. Jacob slumps his head back to the ground, stare fixed blankly ahead. 

“Frye, I need you to listen to me. You listening?”

He doesn’t want to...

“ _Jacob_.”

The way Teddy says his name, his first name, feels wildly intimate. It’s usually said so sternly, in exasperation, a way to shove a serious tone into any conversation he’s a part of. But when Teddy speaks, it’s tame and tender, he wants to hear it spoken that way more.

He’s delivered on his want when Teddy tells him he’s going to have to wrap his own injuries. 

Jacob blinks sluggishly, forcing a look back over his hand, held close and aloft. Watches the _drip, drip, drip_ of red trickling down his wrist and onto the ground. 

His voice is as dead as they both will be soon. 

"...s'nothing to use."

“You’ve got a shirt, haven’t you?”

He has, but it's four days soiled with three of those in a stinking dungeon, where the snot's been beaten out of him more times than he can count. Feels like he’s spilled half his body weight in blood, staining his skin. 

_It’s a simple enough request,_ frowns the Evie in his head, _Jacob_ , _come on, you clot!_

He forces himself to sit up, peeling his left hand away from the red-stained wrist of his ruined right. He’s only had to wear a sleeveless undervest this whole time, barely any protection from the biting cold and relentless damp in this loathsome hole. Nevertheless he slowly reaches for the ruined hem—already torn in some places, dirty everywhere else—and tugs. 

He rips a line of material off, tapering up at the end. 

“Good man.”

Looking from the limp, sullied cloth, to his raw, crippled hand, his eyes are watering at just the _thought_ of touching the two together. Jacob gulps down the rough knot in his throat, not wanting to hear it, but without a prompt Teddy’s here again, talking him through it _. Gentle, now. That’s the way._

God, he wishes he could see him.

The first _touch_ earns a pained cry, twists into a strangled groan. Simply laying the end of the cloth lightly over the severed place where his fingers once were, and with no pressure, is _agony_. Eyes slammed shut, he needs to steady his breathing to continue.

“You’re doin’ so well, darlin’. So feckin’ well.”

The gentle praise sears his skin like fire, like the heat of a kiss and shock of a brand all at once. Jacob’s dazed from blood-loss, clinging to the heady relief of a kind word and Teddy’s lilting calm, a drowning man in a tender sea. 

It’s all he needs, that voice, to move past the initial distress of the cloth pulled over his wounds. Ted guides him through it all. _Taut enough to staunch the bleeding. Loose enough to move_.

Okay, yeah, sure. Of course he can do that. 

Very quickly coming to the end of the torn hem he’s using, but it looks to be doing the job.

He stares at it now. A dirty strip of hemline wrapped around his palm and wrist. Two fingers and a thumb on show. If you glanced there without knowing, you’d think he simply had his ring and little finger bandaged up, perhaps just bent or broken.

No.

They’re gone. 

And as Jacob keeps on staring at his mutilated hand, silent tears trickle from his bloodshot eyes, and he sobs. 

It’s not long before he hears Teddy again, that soothing voice a temporary balm to his broken soul.

“Jacob, it’s through. You can rest.”

But it’s not enough to stop his tears. They’re still trailing thin streams down his cheeks, probably washing away the grime staining his face, chin, neck.

“Now give us a fist, up over your heart. Bleeding should stop.”

He coughs, choking on whatever combination of phlegm, spit and blood is stuck in his throat, and follows where Teddy leads him.

Jacob raises his hand above his head but very quickly it droops. Thinking better, he rests it on his left shoulder, clinging on with his first and middle fingers to keep it there, stop it falling past his heart. 

He realises then that he’s still sat in the centre of his cell. The bitter draft that creeps perpetually along the floor is worse here, and he feels more vulnerable laid out with nothing at his back. 

When shuddering breaths have stopped wracking his chest and throbbing ribs, he slowly crawls over to Teddy’s corner, all but dragging himself.

“Jacob. You with me?”

He feels the most deplorable, pitiable wretch. Dregs pulled up from beneath Chain Pier that should rather be thrown back, forgotten. 

“You’ve been so brave, mate."

Jacob hauls himself away to rest against the wall, his most familiar spot. Feels warmer here than the rest of this dank, sweaty bubo he now calls his home. His tomb. Grave. 

Even so, he's defeated, and a large part of him wishes they'd finished him off instead of leaving him sitting here, lingering and hurting.

Waiting to die.

"No, 'm not."

“Course y’are. What else could be done, let ‘em take your whole hand? Any man would have done the same. Sure, and your sister—she’ll be fine, now. If the lass is anything like you, she’ll spot ‘em coming.”

It's the most Teddy's ever spoken to him at once, but Jacob doesn't have the mind to care. He's turned to lean on his side, shoulder digging into the brick. His half-lidded eyes watch nothing dead ahead, focus fading in and out.

"They won’t find her."

A slow drip is all that sounds for a beat.

"That warehouse is empty,” Jacob whispers, gaze stinging. “I lied." 

Ted’s sigh of pity doesn't help one whit, only further serves to highlight Jacob's infinite stupidity.

“ _Oh, mate_.”

And that's already got its own sold-out show at the Alhambra, with huge bastard lamplights shining up into the clouds for the whole of London to come and spectate. To laugh.

Lucy Thorne will be back. Her lackeys will be back. There's an endless supply of cleavers that will be back. 

He doesn't have the will to consider breaking out again.

No plan, no future.

No kingdom to come for the likes of him. 

They didn't just cut away part of his hand, they beheaded all hope.

“So, she as stubborn as you are? Your Evie.”

Evie. _Oh Evie_. He's sorry. He shouldn't have done it, any of it. Should have listened and stayed out of her business. He never wanted to go looking for any chuffing artifact, he only went along to get a rise out of her. And look how that backfired. In usual Jacob Frye style: spectacularly. 

Forces out an answer.

"More."

Silence, dripping. Teddy lets out a long, low whistle, like Jacob’s shocked him into it.

“Can’t fathom that. Closest I got is a mam with a temper, and she’s not much at that. Never could stay mad long enough to teach me a lesson.”

Jacob's been keeping a Teddy Tally in his head, with little marks, snippets of information written up whenever the guy lets something new slip. And now he adds a mum onto that list. 

He's surprised, though doesn't know why. Teddy seems so self-sufficient, like the man probably sprung from a hole in the ground somewhere, not needing anyone, or anybody. 

Jacob wishes he was the same. Thinks it would have been easier without a family. Then kills that thought in an instant, disgusted with himself for even thinking it. 

He's wandered off down the well-trodden path which leads to his own absent mother, a spiral he falls down every so often. 

He's always imagined her the same as Teddy's; loving, _kind_ , the very definition of happiness, but never to be trifled with. She must have been, to deal with Ethan Frye and his endless bullshit.

Jacob wishes he knew more, that his nan or Father had told them _more_. But, how can you miss something that you’ve never had?

Easily, it turns out.

“Came over in the Hunger, my parents. Wanted a better chance for me.”

Back to that tally. He adds a dad.

“You’ll not believe it, but I trained as a locksmith.” Ted’s laugh is mirthless, bitter irony. “Picking, specifically.”

That grabs Jacob’s interest more than anything said previously. Ears pricked, he’s briefly back in the room, dragged from his own morbid study like a runaway cart behind its nag. 

“Any good?”

“I like to think so.”

A myriad of possibilities begin to spark in Jacob’s jaded mind, _maybe_ —

“Took my kit when they nicked me, though. Useful like tits on a bull.”

Bugger.

“There’s… nothing, in your cell?”

“First thing I did was look.”

Damn. Jacob squints about his own prison, scanning for anything that isn’t brick, filth, or dashed hopes. 

The _only_ thing in here, other than himself, are the small wooden pails for drinking and pissing in. But the bloody things no longer have their handles. 

“D'you have a bucket? S’there a handle on it?”

“Two, yeah. No handles.”

He groans, deflating, wondering why he even bothered getting his hopes up.

“Frye.”

Doesn't answer, trusts Teddy knows he's listening.

“If she’s anything like you, your Evie. She’s already out looking.”

Jacob knows Teddy’s right, has been thinking about it ever since he landed in here. She’s probably got half of London looking for him; the other half strung from the rafters for getting in the way. 

In his weaker moments, on days when she’s cross and he’s on the run from their constant rows, Jacob retreats to his memories of happier times, before they grew up and things soured so easily.

He remembers now, with sudden fierce longing, back to when they were seven, playing hide-and-seek. He’d found his best _ever_ hiding spot shadowed in a rusted coal bunker, behind the shed at the bottom of the garden. Hadn’t been used in years and was so overgrown. Jacob had fallen asleep inside, and Evie didn’t find him till the next afternoon. He came out blacker than a witch’s cat, soot-covered from head to toe, but Evie had still hugged him tight. She’d had on a brand new day-dress, palest blue—got it filthy to the nines, and Father had clipped them both round the ears for it. Jacob’s twice. 

He’ll never forget the worry in her big blue eyes, how she was on the verge of tears telling him all the places she’d looked. How she didn’t sleep that night thinking she’d lost her baby brother. All the neighbours she’d questioned, further bothered lovely old Nellie next door, even going as far as to stop the milkman riding by and checking in his cart. 

“Honestly surprised she hasn’t stormed the shop, yet.” 

A half-smile at that thought, fleeting like a bird on the wing. Too busy wondering if Evie could be just on the cusp of finding them. Outside the door right now. 

Here’s hoping she still cares for him enough to get her dress dirty.

“Any minute now.”

He manages a bit more of a smile, hearing Teddy’s usual savvy tone creeping back in. 

Jacob’s not thick, he knows what the man’s been doing: keeping him occupied and talking, staving his mind off wandering dizzily, back to panic.

He swallows nervously, skirting darker thoughts he can’t bear again, throat tightening. He can’t go back to that space in his head. So he thinks of Teddy, and his kindness, wanting to acknowledge it.

“Thank you.”

The scurrying of rat feet is his only response. 

Due to this rudeness, Jacob decides to slip on Teddy’s accent like a fine-fitting suit, answer himself.

“ _Yer welcome, Jacob_. _Ya fine ‘n handsome fella. I’m so glad I met ya._ ”

“Tosser.”

But the bloke sounds downright _fond_ and Jacob smiles, truly now: just wide enough to crack his lip, and laugh a little past the pain. At once he’s feeling lighter, if only for a second, a brief spark of joy, like a break in the clouds of a fatal thunderstorm. All thanks to this lad and his winning personality.

“Frye.”

“...yeah?”

“I _am_ glad I met you.”

Feels like Teddy just came up to him and slapped the knife from his hand, wasted all his bullets, and bent his blades in two. Jacob’s utterly disarmed—such a fierce sudden surge of affection that he’s staggered, he’s veritably aglow. 

Basking in a warmth he hasn’t known since the sun shone on his face that direful day in the park, Jacob summons up a momentary grin.

“Don’t go getting soft on me, now. This doesn’t mean we’re mates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave you hurt so here's the comfort! 
> 
> See, it's not that bad.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Chain Pier** : the Royal Suspension Chain Pier located in Brighton, England. Built in 1823, it was destroyed during a storm in 1896. At a guess I'd say it's a few hours horse-drawn bus ride from there to Crawley. Brighton, being a very popular seaside spot, would have had the twins visiting for a couple days during the summer with their dad
> 
>  **Chuffing** : used in the same vein as 'bloody'. Not to be confused with 'chuffed' which means pleased, or 'chuff' which you call someone who you don't like, in a similar way to calling them an idiot
> 
>  **The Hunger** : also known as The Great Famine or The Great Hunger, the Irish Potato Famine (1845-1849) was a period of mass starvation (genocide) in Ireland, that went on to kill over 1 million people and a further 1 million (at least) emigrated from the country. I highly recommend further research on this, just to learn how truly evil the British were to the Irish people. They pretty much caused it, prolonged and propagated it
> 
>  **Nellie** : referenced from the Jack The Ripper DLC. She was their childhood neighbour and Jacob's cryptic clue to Evie on where to find help (JTR can go fuck itself though)


	7. run until you feel your lungs bleeding

This is it. The moment of truth. 

Jacob waits until the cell door is closed. Until the keys are turned in the lock and placed back on the Blighter’s belt. 

There’s two of them. And only two.

A smaller woman who’ll be no hassle. But the bloke is going to be a much bigger one. 

Literally. 

Jacob’s one arm down and his mobility is not as stellar as it’s ever been: broken ribs, a bleary eye, pinched shoulder, and the throbbing in his leg has returned. 

If this is ever going to work then it needs to be _now_. Because he will not get a third chance after this. He’s frankly amazed that they’ve been stupid enough to let it get this far. Thorne must visit this location sparingly, otherwise that would never be the case: he’d be under maximum guard every hour of the day, or.

He’d be dead already.

“Miss Thorne told us to come take care of ya. A nice _seein’_ to.”

Jacob’s sat on the floor in his usual spot, hugging his legs, head down, eyes shut. Putting on his categorically finest ‘ _I’m just a poor injured prisoner who can’t hurt nobody I swears_ ’ charade.

It’s working.

“Can’t wait to hear ya _squeal again_ like a little piggy.”

The two chortle like carrion crows on a chimney, barely any sense strung between the pair of them. He opens his eyes.

“I happen to know some _piggies_ who’d take great offence to that.”

Jacob braces himself as the guy saunters up to him, clearly not appreciating the rejoinder, and reaches down to grab him by the throat, hauling him up to eye-level with a violent shake of his body.

 _Shit_. The bastard's taller than he thought. And Jacob’s feet are only _just_ scraping the floor as he’s held aloft, bare toes dragging on the ground. Gasping and gripping at the man’s wrist with his good hand, still playing the hapless fool.

“Maus? What yer say we do first. Kickin’, or _punchin_ ’?”

"Shake his hand!"

The waste of organs turns his head away to laugh along with his fellow comedienne, and that’s when Jacob makes his move. 

A swift knee to the bollocks is his first maneuver, gets him dropped awkwardly back to his feet. The woman’s shrieking like a banshee while the bruiser doubles over and Jacob, balance regained, throws a thick left hook into the side of the bloke’s head, sending him downwards onto hands and knees.

The lass quick pulls out a billy club, swings it straight at Jacob’s head. He ducks and grabs her wrist, twisting with a satisfying _crack_ —a scream, then the hollow sound of her club hitting the floor. 

Before she can grab any new weapons with her remaining hand, Jacob tugs her towards him, promptly wraps his arm around her neck and wrenches through a clean _snap_.

The body crumples at his feet, and Jacob takes no time in seizing the abandoned truncheon to his left; spinning around to witness the first guy clambering up, and the shock on his grisly face when he gleans his mistake. 

“ _I’m gonna gut you like a fish_!”

Adrenaline is coursing through him like he hasn’t felt in an age, heart pounding and palms sweating, making the wooden bat slide easily in his grip. 

He grins. 

The two foes shift, circling each other like wounded animals, both desperate to be the victor. 

Jacob blows a derisory kiss in the guy’s direction, eyes glinting when the fella roars and breaks straight for him. 

Even wounded, Jacob’s the quicker.

Feinting left, he delivers a hard blow to the back of the Blighter’s knee when the guy hurtles past him, unable to stop. 

The man buckles once again and Jacob flings himself on top; throws his arms around the tosser’s meaty throat and throttles out a strangled scream. Only problem is _this_ neck is like a fucking tree trunk, and in this state Jacob just doesn’t have the strength to break it. 

He holds on instead, trying to choke him to death.

Knows it’s working when the guy gags, when ragged gasps fill Jacob's ears. He screws his eyes shut, despising the messiness of all this but there’s nothing else to be done. It's kill or be killed, and no one would fault him for that now.

No one, save himself.

His first—his Blooding—was crude: one panicked burst of sneaking chaos after another, but he’d eliminated his target. Hidden blade, by a single stroke. Took out more guards than he should have, but the job was done. Father was assuaged, the death was quick. Nearly painless. Jacob prided himself upon that. No unnecessary cruelty. 

_Kills are swift, clean and silent_.

This kill is none of them.

The poor bastard pounds a fist to the floor as Jacob holds on all the tighter, tears leaking from his eyes. For himself and for this wretched soul beneath him.

Jacob fucking hates it.

It’s a long, agonising struggle until the fella falls still. Jacob waits miserably, Assassin instinct commanding he witness the last twitch of life ebb from the body before he rolls away, chest heaving. Slumps exhausted on his back.

 _Breathe_.

Guilty relief swamps his lungs, heavy and sodden like a dose of opium, and Jacob’s shaking, nausea rising while the Evie in his head rails.

 _There’s no time for that now, Jacob. Get off your lazy arse and get out of there_!

He doesn’t need telling twice.

Stumbling dizzily to his feet, Jacob sucks in a damp, aching breath that tastes sharp and sweet.

Except that’s when he doesn’t see it, the broad, heavy hand that clamps his ankle like a vice, jerking him off-balance with a shocked yelp. 

The bruiser _still isn’t dead_ and Jacob panics, feels freedom slipping through his remaining fingers, being stolen out from under him. He clutches at the billy stick in hand, wrapping both round the handle before swinging down, hard enough to split the brute’s crown.

A sickening _crunch_ , and _again_ , and again, while Jacob sobs with rage, the unholy anguish of it all. Blood splatters on the floor, up the wall, flung backwards across the ceiling like mud from a puddle. 

Time blurs into a thick red mass. Jacob’s gasping, doesn’t know how long he keeps on but by the time he slows, there’s no longer a face staring up at him; nothing but blood and bone and viscera, flayed skin where one was before.

A monster.

He staggers back, throws the truncheon at the wall. Draws shaking hands to hide his face in remorse before turning away, doubling over to dry-heave. He retches up nothing from his barren stomach, only abhorrence of the destruction he’s wrought in his desperation. 

He’s no better than them. 

Truly, what is the difference? Did they show more mercy by not killing him outright? Or less, by stringing his life along on a line, never quite going as far to kill him, just keep him hanging on for the next time?

At least they didn’t bash his skull into a thousand pieces and make swill of his brains. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. There is someone else’s blood on his hands, spattered up his arms. Jacob will never know his name.

 _Breathe_.

He's killed people like this a thousand times. Why is this any different.

 _Get up and get out of there, Jacob_!

Keys are glinting on the woman’s belt, beckoning like footlights to a moth—and suddenly he’s crawling, dragging hands and knees to rob her grave. Unhooks the ring with trembling fingers, keys sliding cold and heavy in his grip.

Then, detesting himself even more for it, he glances at the other deceased body, from the mangled features down the span, and finally the feet. 

He needs shoes if he doesn’t want his feet cut to ribbons on the way out of here, nevermind what current depths his self-loathing has newly plumbed. Loosening the ties and pulling out the tongue, Jacob shoves a foot in the first boot: his _toes_ barely fit comfortably, let alone his heel.

“ _Trust me to find the one bloke with feet smaller than my sister_ —”

Boots of General Tom Thumb notwithstanding, Jacob laces up as quickly as his marred hands allow, which is damnably slow.

 _Beggars can’t be choosers_ he hears Evie opine in his head, while he gingerly frisks the body for further keys, perhaps a knife. No such luck. 

With a shuddering breath he’s back on his feet and hobbling to the cell door, the keys he lifted from the woman clinking together in his sweaty palm. 

Jacob gets the lock on his first try. The creaking of rusted joints does nothing to calm his kicking heart when he steps outside the cage, shuts the door with a final hollow thud.

He’s _out_.

The corridor is quiet, but Jacob’s as tense as catgut pulled taut. A breeze runs tingling fingers down the back of his neck, over his bare arms and at his waist where the section of hem is missing. He swallows hard.

Making slow, calculated steps up the corridor, he notes the light that seemingly drenched his own pen disappears fairly quickly down here. The smell is musty, noxious almost as it fills and permeates his lungs. 

There’s also water _everywhere_. The walls are sodden with it, his stolen boots slopping through puddles on the floor. 

He squints in the dim as he gets closer, holding his breath and hoping to see the man there, just fine, nothing’s wrong. They can get out and leave and never come back to this rathole ever again. 

If only to burn it down. 

Jacob rounds on the door at the end, peering into the inky darkness that fills nearly the entire cell. He swallows. 

“Ted?”

“ _Frye_!”

Jacob drops at once like a stack of bricks as Teddy shoves himself forward from out of the blackness, rattling the bars like a man possessed. 

Their gazes meet, and Jacob doesn't know what he was expecting, but somehow, not this:

The bloke looks _awful_.

Wide-eyed, hollow-cheeked, Teddy’s pale face is gaunt. Cuts and scratches aplenty, a black eye that's past the worst of it but still lingers. A sore lip gone dark with crusted blood. What appears to be every bit of filth in this godawful place has, at one point, made its journey across his slight face.

And yet.

Somewhere at the back of his hazy mind, Jacob's taken by how _fair_ the man truly is, beneath the grime.

Younger than his years or timbre suggested, and definitely nowhere near as bulky as he thought. All long limbs and sharp angles, cheekbones that could make a blade look dull. Dark, wary eyes, but in another light they could be warm—and Jacob has to scold himself for even noticing this now, _not the sodding time, Frye_. 

Guilt instead gnaws down his spine, for cocking up his earlier escape attempt, for dooming his friend to sit here in this misery longer than was ever necessary. 

Jacob reaches through the bars and grasps Teddy’s bony shoulder with a firm grip, squeezing as gently as he can. Unable to hide his giddy smile.

"Didn't I say I'd come get you." 

Teddy’s split lip curls up at one corner. 

“Took your time, then.”

Jacob fails spectacularly at hiding his mirth, for the man matches his expectations to the letter, that dry wit and sly delivery entirely _Ted_.

He eases his hand back and puts on a forced huff.

"Ungrateful."

Jacob feels warm for the first time in days. Doesn't bother to cloak his smile, even a bit. 

Rising to his feet he breathes out a shaky sigh, grabbing the keys from his belt and beginning to try each one in turn.

As he goes, Jacob's painfully aware of Ted watching him: his mate's come to stand alongside, using the bars for support with tiny hitches of pain, and is now staring at Jacob's face and _not_ what he's doing with his hands. 

He makes himself focus, get back on track, cursing when he fumbles with the second key, knowing he's rushing and mucking it up. 

It’s also a nuisance working with _less fingers_ , he has to get used to holding and touching, grasping in a new and strange way. Knowing his mind is telling the digits that are no longer there to do things they’re not capable of, _because they’re not there_. 

He tries not to think on it.

By the time he's tried the third and final key Jacob's scowling up a storm. Not _one_ of them has worked, how can he muck up so badly?—and so he tries again, feels the uneasiness creeping up his neck with each subsequent defeat like fleshless fingers; Time and Death waiting just round the corner for the two of them with scythe poised to swing and _none of these fucking keys work, damn it!_

Raging against his own impotence as each new attempt fails and _fails again_ , he dares a glance to Teddy. 

The man's busted knuckles are grasped tight around the bars, his lean face pressed between. From the corner of his eye, Jacob's watched an almost frantic optimism brimming within Teddy's… but now that hope is fading fast, and Jacob can't bring himself to accept it.

He growls as the last key jams for the fifth time, grabbing the lock and ragging the whole damn thing, metal scraping, harshly rattling and clanking—and then Jacob suddenly stops, head wilting between his shoulders, breathing heavily.

He doesn't want to look at Teddy again. He doesn’t have the heart. Can't accept his own failure, or allow his friend to do the same. 

Eventually, he does. His chest thumps with fear when he drags his gaze up, back to the man waiting in such patient, unyielding silence:

He just _looks_ at Jacob, those wide dark eyes full of ancient grief, and Teddy fucking _smiles_.

“Jacob,” he rasps, squeezing the bars like they’re Jacob’s hand, like his fate is somehow sweeter for a stolen taste of hope. “ _Go._ ”

They stare at each other for what seems like an age. 

London falls around them, and is rebuilt once more; a hundred times over, again and again.

Jacob wants to argue, to rail and rage how bloody _ridiculous_ and _selfish_ — _how_ _wrong_ and noble Teddy’s being, tell him it's stupid and _foolish_ to play at saints and martyrs—only _Jacob_ is allowed to be any combination of those things at once, it's not fair. 

_No_. 

There's more than one way to skin a cat.

And there's more than one way to break Teddy out. 

Slapping on his best match-face, he leaves the keys dangling in the lock and steps a pace backwards. 

Takes in the outside of the cell.

He didn't even clock it earlier but it's almost half the width of his own. Far narrower at the bars, which may be to his advantage. 

The first day back in his own prison, Jacob had sussed out the leak ruining the wall, seeping down the sides. He'd tried to use it, break the hold where wet bricks weakened at the bars, but to no avail.

His pales in comparison to this cell now, seems to have half the Thames itself running down its very sides. The whole right side is thick with a deep slime, dirty water trickling down through the dissolving mortar and pooling at his feet. 

With a sharp breath out, Jacob readies himself before leaping up to the top right corner of the cell door. He clings on with both hands, surprised by how much strength is still there in his crippled side, feeling spurred on by the realisation. 

Unlike when he attempted this in his own cell, the bars begin to cave almost immediately, mortar crumbling and the ends of the metal springing forth as he bends them back, popping out like daisies turning towards the sun. 

Four bar-ends showing later and he lets himself down with a breathless huff, not sparing a glance for Teddy: he doesn't want an update on that despair from earlier.

Shaking his head and knocking clumps of clay and dust from his hair, he now turns his attention to the bar running parallel across the centre of the doorway, grabbing a hold of the right side and pulling with everything he has left in him.

This is more difficult than the corner, it's lodged deeper in the brick, but he has better purchase at waist level, can kick at the wall and loosen the embedded bar after some moments of strain. 

With the top and the middle now free of the masonry, it doesn't take much for him to bend them back, also yank up a couple of the bars from out the floor with a tired heave, leaving behind blood-stained prints. The mortar there has nearly disintegrated already, the constant damp conditions doing some good. 

He's left with a smallish gap between the dividing wall and the disfigured bars, maybe one-and-a-half-foot.

It's _enough._

Jacob’s panting with satisfaction as he straightens, coated in a sheen of triumph, or maybe that’s just sweat and filth. 

He steps over and leans through the rift, holding out his red-raw and bleeding hand for Teddy to take, smiling like the sun through thunderheads.

"I believe you ordered an escape?”

Teddy only stares, lips open in wordless awe but Jacob can't hold it against him now. The man looks about ready to collapse, lilting to one side, face thin and pained. Jacob wonders if he'd even weigh anything if he picked him up right now.

More than aware, he's careful to guide his friend through the created space, catching sight of that twisted ankle and making it his job not to let go of Teddy’s clammy, grazed hand, even when the man creeps gingerly from the cage that's been his home going on _nine_ bloody days. 

While Teddy's steadying himself Jacob grabs the keys still left in the unworkable lock, and shoves them deep in his pocket. Insurance, just in case.

" _Right_." 

Jacob turns his full attention back to Teddy, drinking in his hunger-pang frame with a glance down, then up again, one eyebrow raised in anticipation, and sighs. 

"You ready?" 

Ted sets a foot forward, wincing. “Let’s find out.”

Jacob smirks, eyes rolling as he moves.

"Gonna need some more positive thoughts than that, Ted."

He lifts Teddy's arm and slips under it, settling the man's slight weight on his shoulders and securing his own arm around Teddy's back, holding his waist. 

Jacob may only have two fingers and a thumb remaining on that particular hand, but he still knows when he can feel ribs protruding like they're on a stray hound. 

Poor Teddy. 

Jacob makes a point of promise to fatten his mate up, get some more meat on his bones so he's able to stand by himself again. Maybe they could both use a wash as well. Just a thought.

“Ask me later, then.”

"Will do. Now, just lean on me, don't worry about anything else." 

At least Teddy's smiling, even if it’s pained. That's something, and Jacob feels him nod, the man's matted hair brushing his neck and causing him a shudder.

They start off down the corridor, it was only five or so steps for Jacob alone but now the pace drags them like a sinking trawler.

They reach his old cell and he grimaces at the banished memory, squeezing Teddy's left hand to catch his attention away from the carnage wrought. 

"Nothing of importance in there. Don't mind it."

Jacob feels Teddy tense after he’s had a look anyway, cursing aloud in his ear. 

“ _Christ_.”

He winces at whatever horrible thing his mate’s imagining of him right now, what repulsive impulses Jacob must have in order to do something _that_ depraved to another human.

Though maybe those thoughts aren't so terrible, as the hold on his ripped shirt tightens, Teddy’s fingers grasping his waist, head brushing his collarbone to rest there.

He swallows the clump in his throat. He _knows_ Teddy’s injured, probably just needs Jacob here to keep upright, but it’s still… _nice._

God, he’s a desperate mess.

Obvious conclusions aside they reach the thick metal door to their prison. Jacob listens a moment, head lowered, eyes closed, for any movement or noise out there. 

Can’t sense anything. 

The patrols must be out and about. 

Which bodes well for him and Ted _now_ , but likely not once they’re outside the building. _Jesus_ , he’s sounding like Evie. 

Guess they’ll have to burn that bridge when they come to it.

He carefully opens the door, cursing at the hinges creaking louder than a brass band in his ears. Opening it is no mere feat either, it’s heavy as shit _and_ he’s trying to keep Teddy stable. He takes a cursory glance about the room, senses on alert.

It’s dark, no windows in here, with only a fire in the centre of the room supplying a raw, flickering source of light, painting the walls with shadow. It’s in a metal barrel, rusted and burnt, with sullied and stained upturned crates for makeshift seats. 

Jacob casts Teddy a spirited grin at their good fortune.

“Just our luck. No one here.”

Teddy grunts, huffing under his breath. “ _Whose_ luck now?”

Jacob lets out a quiet chuckle as he guides them through the doorway and into the outer room, whispering in answer.

“Let me know the minute any of those positive thoughts crop up.”

There are two exits within here. The one directly ahead has no door and looks like a long, dark corridor. If they go down that and anyone turns the corner at the far end, they’re done for like rabbits in a weasel’s nest. 

Jacob really doesn’t like that option. 

He supposes he’ll go check the other instead. 

Just as he’s about to start them in that direction, a dull shine glints from beside the barrel, catches the corner of his eye. He rushes them over towards it instead.

“Oh, _yes_.”

Settling Teddy on the closest crate, holding until he’s stable, Jacob’s frowning in sympathy at the look on his mate’s face. He’s never seen someone look so… _dead_ , when they’re alive. He hopes to soothe away Teddy’s distress somewhat, with this. 

He snatches up a jug, abandoned on the floor beside the barrel, takes a quick sniff to make sure it’s nothing too untoward, and necks a huge gulp. 

It’s trickling out the sides of his mouth and down his filthy, bruised throat but Jacob couldn’t care less: it’s _clean_ water, something he hasn’t had in over four days and his body is craving it, just keeps wanting more.

After too short a time he stops himself with a desperate gasp for air, satisfied for now, and passes it off to Teddy. There’s more than half of it left, he can have the rest.

“ _Here_ , get that down ya.”

While Teddy takes his turn Jacob wipes at the water down his front, trickled all the way under his ruined shirt and down his stomach. 

_Christ,_ he can’t wait to have a bath once they’re out of here.

Speaking of, Jacob leaves Teddy to his feast and treads softly over to the shut door of before. 

Waiting, listening again, he can sense something far off. A flicker, no, two. They’re not friends, so must be foes. The pair aren’t too close to them though. It should be fine to slip out and head through this way.

Still, their circumstances are precarious at best, weighing deep and smothering at the edges of his consciousness: mind made up, Jacob executes a swift about-turn and heads for Teddy, watching the man still drinking his fill from the jug.

Jacob comes to sit next to him, squeezing in on the same crate, and waits for as long as he’s able. 

Casting cautious glances over his shoulder down that long spook of a corridor, it’s like a gaping maw, waiting to spit up whatever devils can bring an end to their foolish thoughts of freedom. Jacob’s not going to allow that to happen, and keeps vigilant. Keeps an eye on the door as well, so no one sneaks up, takes them by surprise.

He finally hears Teddy come up for air.

Raising his scarred brow at his mate, watching him, Jacob’s well amused by the look on Teddy’s face.

“Better?”

“ _God_ , yeah.”

Jacob’s smile grows at the sight of Teddy’s, it looks true—feeble, near-delirious, but _true_ —and he’s bloody chuffed to be the one who put it there. 

“There’s plenty more where that came from once we’re out of here, _come on_ —”

With that Jacob makes himself stand in order to grab Teddy, legs and everything else beginning to let their ailments be known as his body comes back down to earth, and the adrenaline of earlier peters out like last week’s cheap flat ale. 

As quickly as they can they’re through the doorway, ducking hastily behind a stack of wooden crates in the next room.

 _Starrick’s Soothing Syrup_ is slapped along the outside of all of them, taunting beside Jacob’s head as he rolls his eyes hard and heavenward, gaining a dark scowl.

He _definitely_ should come back and torch the place.

Jacob channels his sour mood into scouting the area, sneaking a glance past their odious cover to spot two guards, patrolling the far side of the large warehouse they’ve stumbled into. 

The room has multiple floors with a large open space in the middle: boxes and crates are piled high on the ground floor, stacked upon pallets, all looking ready to be loaded and shipped out. 

Shipped out to make the Templars more money, and the people of London that little bit duller, that _little bit_ easier to control.

He is _absolutely_ coming back here to burn this place to the ground.

On a brighter note, the main doors are flung open wide, gaping like some giant’s toothless mouth and beckoning escape.

So that’s something.

“Still with me, Ted?”

At his whisper, the man gives him a lackluster nod in return. 

Jacob frowns, seeing his mate wilt further with every passing moment, Teddy’s barely keeping himself upright: he needs to hurry and get him out of here, set them both free. Prepares himself, crouching swiftly into action.

He sneaks them around the outer edge of the room, making sure to stick to the shadows and behind cover at every turn. He can’t watch both guards at once or all the time, boxes and crates keep getting in the way. 

But Jacob’s vigilant. 

Stays alert. 

Keeps going. 

When he reaches an impasse that amounts to a wider stretch of floor with no cover, and nothing between him and one of the guards’ routes, he has to take stock. 

Jacob brings them both to a crouch, making sure Teddy is hidden where he’s leaving him, safe, and touches his friend’s drooping chin to get his attention.

“Ted, I’m going to have to clear the way. You _must_ stay here, keep still. Got it?”

All he receives in answer is a dazed blink, and it feels like a whole ruddy day passes before Teddy nods in approval. Jacob squeezes his shoulder, worried, before turning away, brows feeling permanently knit together at the state of him. 

_Concerned_ isn’t even the half of it.

“ _...be careful_.”

Jacob barely catches the frail whisper from behind, but when he does his chest tightens. He smiles to himself, feeling spurred by Teddy’s care, glad his mate’s still aware enough to know what’s going on and what Jacob’s about to do.

Shifting into a crouch, his legs protest vehemently at the treatment but he pushes through, throws himself into a dash behind a large crate, bigger than the others. Stood vertically, it's perfect cover, at least two feet taller than Jacob himself. And, fancy that: directly adjacent to the nearest guard’s patrol route.

He waits for the guy to come closer. 

Jacob can hear every pigeon-toed foot plant and heel scuff, taking note of every stone of gravel moved beneath the man’s boots, the shift of his clothes as he walks, the sway of his gait, and the bored sigh blown through his chapped lips.

_Don’t worry, mate. I’ll take care of that for you._

Jacob hears him turn his head away, and that’s when he strikes. Pulling a punch as he rounds the corner, straight into the bloke’s jaw that knocks him flying. The dope was completely off his guard and ends up staggering into the stack of crates opposite, and then falling to the floor. 

Thankfully they’re too heavy to push over, but the bottles inside give a telltale _clink_ —Jacob hopes beyond everything that the other guy hasn’t been given a free hint as to his antics. 

Yet, at least.

Jacob’s on this unlucky bugger before that can happen anyway, dropping with a knee digging hard into his chest and winding him. At the same time he’s grabbing the knife tucked poorly into the guy’s belt and plunges it down straight into his heart. 

Immediately there’s a hand over the man’s mouth, Jacob holding fast both points on the body, pushing down and desperately trying to make this as _quiet_ as he can. With as little movement as possible. 

It’s messy— _not as messy as earlier_ —but it does the trick. 

The guard stills, one last gurgle of blood spilling from his mouth, running through Jacob’s fingers, before he goes slack. 

With a bone-weary breath released he didn’t realise he was holding, he listens for a brief moment before moving on. Checking the distance between their exit and the remaining patrolman in here, Jacob decides it's far enough that he can manage Teddy out just fine. 

He’s still keeping the crude knife though, and wipes the blood off using its owner’s red coat. 

_Hm_. It matches.

Jacob’s back at Teddy’s side before long and is dropping to the floor in an instant. His poor friend has curled in on himself, head resting on his knees: looking already dead to anyone who didn’t know better.

Jacob swallows, nervously, hates that somewhere deep down he’s thinking maybe _he_ doesn’t know better, but when he shakes his mate’s shoulder, Teddy stirs, blinking and raising his head.

Relieved, Jacob ducks closer, trying to catch Teddy’s eye. 

“Come on Ted. We’re almost out.”

There’s little movement or recognition, and Jacob frowns.

“Just need you to go a little farther. Think you can do that? Come on.”

He’s not waiting for any answer this time, they have to leave and they have to leave _now_. They’re already on far too much borrowed time as it stands. 

Jacob hauls Teddy up by the underarms, maneuvering him to stand and lean on him as before, though now Jacob basically takes all his weight. He’s like a scarecrow that’s lost most of its stuffing, and even though Teddy’s likely less than half of Jacob’s weight, he’s still beginning to feel it in his bones.

See, this would be fine if he was in top form, but Jacob is currently _not_. He's not even in bottom form, he's not even filling in the _same_ form. 

He sighs wearily before taking any further steps, weak and exhausted, needing to rest... but they’re almost out, and Jacob can _see_ the glorious fucking miserable London sky, seeming ready to open any second now. 

He can’t wait to feel the rain on his face.

They’re making their slow, arduous way over to the open warehouse doors, his chest _thuds_ at the sudden shock of lightning that flashes in the clouds above and accompanying sound of thunder rumbling throughout the whole building. 

He usually hates this kind of weather. Was always Evie that loved a good storm, but now it’s a more than welcome change to the stale air, chilled bones, and reeking blood he’s languished in for far too long.

As they step out into the yard, he hears the Clock Tower bellowing out miles behind as if competing with the sky. Its chime and boom sound only once, but it’s familiar, it’s something unaffected by the confines of his prison. Puts Jacob in a more lucid mind already, so close to home. 

The courtyard they find themselves in isn’t very long, but it is wide. It extends all the way up, away from the river a few buildings down on their right, and looks to join a main road at the top of a slight incline. 

He can _see_ the exit.

Carriages race and trundle by, past the open doors, Jacob can taste freedom, safety away from this mess. He only has to get there.

 _Only_.

There are large collections of boxes stacked high on the loading dock where they stand, helping to shield them from sight of any Blighters that might be milling about the yard, or even other workers in the warehouses opposite. He doesn’t want _any_ kind of attention now: the smallest shift could easily hinder him, and he’s barely hanging on as is.

Jacob tightens his grip on Teddy as they start on the last leg, grunting when he feels the man slipping. He’s sure Teddy’s not even holding himself up any longer, each additional step brings less life than the last, for both of them. 

Jacob might as well carry the man, he would be less painful for it. 

He lays Teddy down gently against one of the boxes, Jacob’s hand tender at the back of his neck. Fingers brushing in his snarled hair. 

He sighs and sinks to his knees, realising too late that stopping has allowed the worst of his fatigue to catch up, and a sudden wave of dizziness hits him square between the eyes. 

Braces himself against the crate beside Teddy, sucking in deep, shuddering breaths. Tries to blink away the spots that keep flickering before his gaze, and Jacob absently ponders what the fuck’s wrong with him.

Maybe he'll just have a quick… sit down. Rest for a spell. Stop that incessant pounding in his skull, this dire need to close his eyes. 

Jacob can feel blood leaking from his hand, soaking into the ruined fabric of his trousers where it rests on his thigh. Every breath is increasingly harder to take, _tugs_ just a little more on his ribs each time, and his headache makes him want to rip out the insides of his skull.

Perhaps this is enough. Perhaps he’s done enough, the Blighters will finally leave them be. Perhaps they won’t be dragged back to that dark, dank place: the only way Jacob’s going back there is dead. Perhaps this was enough.

It’s a nice hope.

It doesn’t last.

A strangled cry, and hurried footsteps in the yard—

Jacob clumsily pulls out the stolen knife, staggering to his feet. The wind whips through his tattered hair, stings his cheeks while thunder rattles overhead, but he’s focussed now: creeping to the edge of cover, blinking to make this blurriness vanish. 

Steels himself for yet another kill.

He can _hear_ someone on the other side. 

Before he even has a chance to crouch, the shadow moves faster—it ducks around the corner, shoves him against the boxes with a _crack_ and jams a blade hard beneath his chin, digging into his jaw— _fuck_ , _at least he tried_.

“ _Jacob_!”

He all but collapses when the blade retracts, from relief or exhaustion he can’t know, but Evie catches him before he falls, and helps to keep him vertical. His knife hits the floor with a clatter, forgotten.

“ _Thank_ _God_ _I found you_ —” 

“ _Evie_ ,” he chokes, and at once Jacob is young again, he’s scraped his knee and lost his favourite pig bladder down the stream but his sister is _here_ , she’ll hold him safe and whisper _all will be well,_ and let him sob it out. Evie will take him up and stroke his hair, wipe his tears gone with her thumb, and Jacob will know he is _loved_ and _God he’s a mess, he just wants to sleep and be home...safe._

“Jacob!”

Another voice, another steady hand upon his shoulder means _Henry_ , Jacob realises belatedly, rubbing his eyes. He’s glad to see the man, sure, but then Evie pulls back, slips away, and he loses her. 

... _damn_.

Jacob makes himself stand so Greenie doesn’t have to, searching frantically for his sister— _there_. Seems she’s turned away, only spotted Teddy.

He musters up energy he doesn't have, explaining blearily.

“Ah, _he’s_ with me. We’re escaping.”

Evie whirls him an incredulous look, before settling on her business frown and striding over to his mate, the cold-blooded Assassin once more. Jacob’s stumbling after with sudden dread curling in his belly, inexplicably protective.

“Who is he?”

_Teddy._

“He was locked up with me. Pissed off the Templars.”

“And you don’t know who he is? Or _what_ he does?”

Jacob’s head feels full of sixty-thousand bees. Trying to stand, _stay_ standing, form a reply, and did he mention _not_ fall over.

“He’s called Teddy and he’s… a lockpick. Probably picked the wrong lock and pissed ‘em off. I _just_ said this.”

“‘ _Must have_ ’? Jacob, he could be anybody— _could be a spy_. We’re not taking him with us—”

“ _Evie_ , Jacob: we shouldn't linger here any longer than necessary.”

Jacob blanches.

“We are _not_ leaving him, he’s half-dead!”

His sister’s face hardens—

“ _You_ bring him then. But hurry.”

—and for a moment Jacob must be hallucinating, he sees their father in her stead.

What the…

He doesn’t have time to sift through what’s just happened, doesn’t have the working thought process either. His mind is about a half-day slow at this rate, needs winding up, or throwing out altogether to get a new one. 

Evie stalks past him, back towards Henry, without so much as another word.

Jacob fumes. 

He drops to his knees with a raw _thud_ out of sheer spite, shaking Teddy’s shoulder a bit harder than before, not really seeing him clearly. He speaks as he’s readying to scoop up the man, head buzzing as he slips a sore hand at his back and a bleeding one under Ted's knees, bracing himself.

“Teddy. We’re going. I’m gonna carry you out of here, so, don’t struggle.”

“ _Leave me_ ,” Teddy rasps against his neck, and Jacob nearly drops them both back to the floor. 

Why the fuck does everyone, _including Teddy himself_ , want Jacob to leave him behind?!

Squaring his jaw, he tries again, pulling his mate tighter around the ribs and rising to his feet with an anguished grunt. 

“ _Frye_. ‘M slowin’ you down.”

Jacob rolls his eyes up to the dark clouds, deeply irked by everything in this moment—Evie, Teddy, life its-fucking-self—and ignores him. Turns them around to face the hill, begins following Evie up ahead. 

With whatever trickle of willpower he has remaining, Jacob’s bores a mulish glare through the back of his sister’s head. Anger, irritation, hurt, and disappointment, they’re all vying for top spot along the forefront of his unglued mind.

Jacob had wished she’d at least be _pleased_ to see him, to show some kind of affection. He thought of _nothing_ but Evie, and escaping to her while he was in that miserable rank void. 

Did she even really care? Or was it about the Templars owning him, and not the Assassins. Like another one of her books, her schematics. Ready to trade.

There was only that mere fleeting glimpse of care before Greenie showed up, not even worth mentioning.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts and turmoil Jacob’s not looking where he’s going, ends up trailing into a wall, scraping half his shoulder off.

Stopping again, his leg buckles and he plummets to one knee, gasping. 

His sudden failure and strung-out thoughts, his wrecked body not cooperating, gives him a heavy moment of grief, of doubt that _he can’t do this_ , he can’t go the last fifty yards, with Teddy or otherwise, and anyway…

...what’s the point. 

This must be what it feels like to be a kitten tied up in a sack and thrown off the Embankment.

He looks down at his friend, defeated. Teddy’s a dead weight hung round his neck, arms unknowingly rubbing the raw marks the garrote left behind along Jacob’s throat. The man’s head is tucked in too close to his neck, he can’t see the anguished face he knows is there. There’s only laboured breathing against his arm, and aside his own chest. 

He’s a bloody state, if ever he saw one. At least Jacob’s upright, conscious, able to move.

 _Move_.

He squares his jaw, remembering that he’s _not_ only doing this for himself, and stands: hefting Teddy higher with what pitiful strength he has left, Jacob hoists the man over his shoulder like a sack of grain. 

Teddy groans, and Jacob feels weak fingers digging into the meat of his back. He plants his hand over Teddy’s tight little arse to hold him in place, making sure he doesn’t slip, and starts on up the way. 

Over the rush of blood in his ears he can hear the sack of grain wheeze, rasp something that sounds suspiciously like _I’ll gut you, Frye_. If he could Jacob would laugh, but his thighs are shaking with all he’s holding up, praying they're strong enough to get them to the top of the hill, and freedom. 

He sees Evie stall ahead, waiting by the empty guardhouse for him. Henry's gone from his sight.

Jacob thinks he sees a flash of worry skim her face as she watches him stagger closer, but it's surely his mind playing wishful tricks. She looks back to her usual sober stare when he blinks, unbelieving. Closer, she takes up the lead out the wide entrance doors.

It’s gone midday and the traffic on the road is bustling, alive; cart wheels clamouring and horses whinnying, men shouting from atop their carts. The cacophony of it all blinds his senses briefly, dazed and overwhelmed, not knowing where to go from here. 

Thank Christ he doesn’t have to worry for long, as in no time at all Greenie appears from nowhere and curbs the growler he’s driving halfway up the pavement. 

Must be taking pointers from Evie.

Jacob sways over to the doors of the thing, wanting to be inside now, please, he thinks he’s deserved that at least. 

Greenie hops down to tug it open and keep it there, and if Jacob had the right mind to, he'd thank the bloke. For that and for coming to get him.

It’s not the most _graceful_ entrance into a carriage he’s ever made, though infinitely better than some of his exits. His legs protest the two meagre steps up more than they did during the entire journey that lead him to this point. 

Hauling himself and his charge inside, Jacob allows the welcome shade and hush of the cab to swallow them up when Henry closes the door behind. 

He hears the lock click from outside.

A clap of thunder shakes the cab, Jacob feels it through his bones but it’s welcome, and then the patter of rain on the roof, growing louder.

The carriage begins moving almost immediately, a harsh spurr from his sister as she cracks the reins and gets the horses moving… 

_Great_. 

They survived all that, and he’s going to die in a carriage accident. Sounds about right.

He carefully lays Teddy down on the leather seat, propping the man up with a gentle lean against the wall before slumping down beside him.

Jacob lets out a long, agonised groan he’s held in for _days_. Smothering his face with his hands and lying there, still, arse half-slid from the seat as the carriage trundles along beneath, it's a rattling comfort. 

He’s finally off his feet, and he and Teddy are actually out. Here.

 _Free_. 

The realisation fills him up so much he lets out a choked sob, suddenly overwhelmed with the glorious thought that he’s been permanently delivered from that revolting cage: no longer an animal, beaten and trapped. No longer stewing in his filth, rage, and despair. 

He lets his hands fall from his face eventually, staring up at the cushioned ceiling for a time. Then he peers out the thin gap between the velour curtains hiding the windows. 

He watches regular London life getting on with itself, passing them, unaffected by what they've been through, never once having thought of their anonymous plight or how to help… and Jacob's so relieved. 

There aren’t words for it.

After a moment of staring, phasing in and out of awareness and bothering his cut lip, Jacob turns to look at Teddy by his side. 

He reaches over and, with a slight hesitation, shifts the hair from out his friend’s eyes.

Jacob’s searching his thin face, covered in grime and discomfort; _fretful_ , because Teddy’s likely unconscious from either hurt or fatigue. No, both.

Jacob fucking wishes _he_ was, honestly.

Lost in thought, his fingers are still caught up in Teddy’s hair. It’s matted and grubby, greasy with thick curls brushing his rough palm. Gently removes them a moment later despite himself, sighing low and hurt.

He pulls Teddy close instead, loathe to leave him jostling against the wall of the cab like a fish on land; with _this_ driver, he’ll end up with a bloody concussion before long. 

He lets Teddy rest against his side, lifting up his arm to lay it across his mate’s shoulder.

Jacob allows himself to rest then, closing his eyes. His brows unfurl as he eases down, relaxes as much as he’s able in a rattling wooden box. Forces himself to focus instead on the dulcet rhythm of the rain, the downpour pelting the roof, instead of how close they both were to being in a _different_ kind of wooden box.

Huh, who's he kidding. 

Their bodies would have been dumped in the Thames.

He dozes briefly, jounced along in half-sleep till a sharp jolt in the ride starts him awake; they've pulled to an abrupt stop, horses whinnying up ahead. 

Teddy’s still limp by Jacob’s side, breath whistling feebly against his throat.

He hears Evie and Greenie arguing, low and muffled, but their words are lost to the rain.

Jacob exhales, slow and choked as a familiar three-whistle blast sounds in the far distance, and his aching eyes prickle with sudden, overjoyed tears.

He’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I don't know about you but I need a sit down. And a cuppa.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Blooding** : a 'blooding' is the term used to refer to an Assassin's first assassination
> 
>  **"Trust me to find the one bloke with feet smaller than my sister"** : John McClane utters this in Die Hard, "Nine million terrorists in the world and I gotta kill one with feet smaller than my sister." YES I USED A DIE HARD QUOTE
> 
>  **General Tom Thumb** : Charles Sherwood Stratton, was a dwarf and very famous circus performer under P.T. Barnum at the time
> 
>  **Clock Tower** : the correct name of the tower that is commonly mistaken as Big Ben. 'Big Ben' is actually the name of the largest of the 5 bells within the clock, not the tower itself. Since its opening in 1859 the tower was called 'Clock Tower' (very original), but in 2012 it was renamed Elizabeth Tower in honour of Queen Elizabeth II's Diamond Jubilee. As an extra tangential fun fact: a diamond jubilee celebrates the 60th anniversary of when a monarch took the throne, and the last time this happened was in 1897 for, you guessed it, Queen Victoria. Who happens to be Queen Elizabeth's great-great-grandmother
> 
>  **Chime & Boom**: the chime of Big Ben plays on the turn of every hour, and goes; 'bing-bong-bing-bong, bing-bong-bing-bong'. The 'boom' follows the chime, signalling the hour. Going by that, in this chapter it is 1 o'clock when they escape
> 
>  **Pig Bladder** : footballs were often made of actual pig's bladders, as they were common, cheap and durable. Except when you lose it, silly boy
> 
>  **Embankment** : referring to the Thames Embankment along the river Thames. As a whole it includes the Victoria and Chelsea Embankments, and runs from Albert Bridge in the west to Blackfriars Bridge in the east


	8. free and young and we can feel none of it

Jacob’s falling. 

He’s falling, he’s going to hit the ground and shatter where he lands; the earth moves up to greet him and his mouth opens to gasp for air, so harsh it burns his lungs—but there’s no pain, no splintering of bones. No ugly end. 

His eyes snap open.

Elbows sink deeply into soft sheets beneath, bare feet pulling on clean cotton covers. Bathed in cold sweat, but there’s a steady breeze flowing in through an open vent, a cooling mercy on his shocked nerves, his bruised skin.

The train. 

It’s night. The sky is soft, crushed velvet painted with watery clouds in smooth London grey, moonlight gilding their undersides. Windows flow past, sooty lamplight burning mucky yellow within, the terraces of the city aglow in slumberous life without compare. Spent rain coats their brick and tile, completing the tranquil misrule of this contradiction of a capital.

It looks like a dream. A dream Jacob never thought he’d see again. 

Yet here he is.

The carriage itself hasn’t changed. A lavish hodgepodge of both order and disarray. Books inching along the cases where they reside as the train chugs through endless boroughs, sounding over every rail with a reassuring vibration Jacob has engraved into his bones. 

He’s here. And he’s _safe_.

The unease of waking in the throes of past horrors melts away, and he slowly tempers his breathing, ejecting strangled nerves with every sigh. 

Jacob allows himself to lie down again, lets the mattress swallow the effort.

He has the vaguest thought, that there’s not as much pain as before, and slowly raises his right hand. 

It’s… _clean_. A crisp white dressing, wrapped skillfully over the wound and secured at his wrist. It feels sturdy, and not like the slightest touch will cause him to double over in anguish: although that may be whatever drug he’s been plied with working its liquid magic. 

There's a sling around his arm too, takes Jacob a moment to realise why that even would be... until he remembers dislocating his shoulder.

God... that feels like months ago.

He’s become so used to wearing the muddy red of his own blood in that time, that this sea of white bandage feels foreign. 

Speaking of, the rest of him has been cleaned up as well: someone’s bathed the muck and filth from his aching chest, dressed him in a soft-worn shirt that smells of washing powder. He feels _cared for_ , days removed from taking bloody beatings in a cell, and a wary touch to his face reveals the same. Small cuts and bruises, sure, but no grime. 

And there’s some kind of gooey poultice, daubed over his blackened eye. Jacob prods at it gingerly, lapping it off his fingertip. _Hm_ , spuds.

Satisfied, he allows his thoughts to trickle down to naught once more, eyes fluttering shut with a deep breath through his nose. He can rest. 

_He’s_ safe.

 _Teddy_.

Eyes flying open, Jacob rakes a frantic look around the cabin, thrown for a loop by the concern for his mate welling up.

A lamp left low sits flickering upon the table, and unwatered ferns sway inaudibly with the rocking of the car. The plush armchair that sits opposite the bed has been dragged close, now level with his pillow. 

It’s where Evie often sits, fiddling with her blade and Jacob’s patience. But not now.

Jacob cranes his neck to see a mass huddled there in the dark, stuffed on the chair. It's covered in a navy tartan blanket that doesn’t help pick their shape from the shadows at all.

Feels familiar. 

It _must_ be Ted, curled up like a clamshell, only his feet visible at the bottom, where Jacob spies a bandage wrapped around one ankle. 

Definitely him. 

He watches the man’s sleeping form for longer than he knows is necessary, half-expecting this all to be a nightmare, that the shape under the blanket is actually— _no_. No. There’s no need to finish that thought. He’s _not_ going back to that place.

His lungs ache, and for what feels like the hundredth time Jacob breathes out, and in, and slowly out again. Every exhale untangles the fearful knot that’s grown in his chest for days. When he closes his eyes, the lull of the train is a comfort: a constant steady rocking, like a ship finally moored in sight of the shore.

Jacob can rest. 

He and Teddy are _safe_.

* * *

The next time Jacob wakes, things are not so dreamlike. 

There’s an ache in his neck to rival a break, face pressed hard in the pillow. The remains of the poultice have smeared everywhere, leaving behind a tacky mess. 

He’s also laid on his left arm, and _pleasantly_ recalls gaining a great fucking gash running a good four inches up its length, burning hurt into the covers like he’s sliding on gravel. 

Clenching his teeth as he rolls off it, Jacob clutches at the bandage covering the stitches there and blinks at the burst of light behind his lids. It’s morning.

The car floods with such intense brightness, welcoming and fresh, but too much for him at once: he's forced to squint, shield his eyes as they adjust. 

Outside is a clear blue sky, only the odd cottony puff of cloud trailing through. London looks to be going about its usual business of not-giving-a-fuck about your troubles, just getting on with being the greatest city in the world.

Makes him smile. Makes him feel fortunate.

To even get to see it, again. 

Jacob forces himself to sit up with an exhausted groan, gasping at the ache in his right shoulder when placing any sort of weight on it, glaring at himself: tired of hurting and feeling useless. He’s cranky because he’s just become suddenly and _acutely_ aware that the medicine of last night has well worn off, feeling as tender as a lamb-fucking-fillet that’s been lobbed down four flights of stairs.

“ _Och_!” 

His name is bellowed out of nowhere, cutting straight through the low clamour of usual train guff, and his foul mood. Jacob knows that voice before he ever sees her.

“Ma wee lad, how are yer!?” 

He's no chance to reply before he’s taken up in a crushing, wonderfully warm embrace that has Jacob melting right into Agnes’ hold.

Doesn't even care that his multitude of maladies are screaming at him, his broken body; he _needs_ this.

He hugs back tiredly with one arm, resting his chin on the threadbare shawl draped over her shoulder, smiling weakly to himself with a sudden fondness for this woman that he never thought he’d feel. She smells like charcoal, a toasty night in by the fireside when it’s snowing out mid-November; a shot of twelve-year scotch, all at once. 

It’s over far too soon and she pulls away, holding him at arm's length while scrutinising every single freckle on his face. Jacob wilts under her gaze.

“Donne tell me tha bastards took yer tongue as well?”

“Unfortunately for everyone, no. I’m fine. Just a little sore.”

“Hm. Alright. _Well_ , if yer need me, yer knows where I am.”

And just as quickly as Agnes arrived she’s gone again, leaving Jacob with an uncommonly maternal chuck under his chin. He watches her depart, smile soft and bittersweet. 

An unforeseen yawn turns into a long, heavy sigh. He runs a hand down half his face, swiping fingers through his over-long beard, scar, another cut towards the back of his jaw; he’ll be here forever if he tries to find them all.

Jutting his chin, still fiddling, he knows he’s going to need some serious preening to get this symmetry back up to snuff. Not really the time for it now. 

Jacob suddenly clutches at his neck, making sure the shilling he keeps is still attached: it is. Good. Laid atop the ligature marks that still sting to the touch. Not so good. 

Which leads him into a frown, as he supposes sadly to himself that he’s lost all his clothes to that place. Taken (or ruined, in his undershirt’s case), and he fucking loved that jacket and cap. Mended and stitched them up more times than he can remember, and for the briefest moment, he allows himself to mourn the loss.

On the bright side, it’s a chance to get something new. _Something from the city_. Finally have something not tied to home. Maybe this'll turn out to be a blessing in disguise. 

With that exciting thought in mind, Jacob scratches at his ribs and almost yelps, an oversensitive spot flaring up. Guess the doc didn’t catch that.

The gripe throbbing there teams up with the tedious torment of his hand, arm and shoulder. Jacob squints in pain. He doesn’t want to, but does anyway, looking down at it. 

He can see the discolouration of the dressing now in the bright daylight, that he wasn’t able to pick out last night. It’s seeping through where his fingers should be. They _should be_ there. Imagining them still present, like phantoms. Staring, he moves his hand, arm, in different directions, slants, taking the _nothing_ in at every angle.

Right. That's more than enough of _that_ shit.

He swallows, and thinks of anything else. 

Teddy.

Jacob turns his attention towards the lumpy pile, still bundled on the seat at his right. 

Ted’s not moved, appears to be in the same position as he was the first time Jacob noticed him. And _what_ a position—looks about as comfortable as squeezing inside a magician’s matchbox. 

Scooting himself back up the bed and using pillows to prop up, Jacob eases back, trying to settle on a position that doesn’t make his ribs _twinge_ or shoulder _pinch._ Eventually he does, angled towards Teddy.

He’s honestly astonished that Agnes’ pipes didn’t shock the man awake, she could strip the paint from Waterloo bridge. Jacob doesn’t think he has it in him to wake the man just to talk, and whispers instead, hopeful.

“Ted?”

No movement. Hm. Bit louder.

“ _Teddy_? You awake, mate?”

“ _Mm_.”

Jacob smirks at the mumble. The woolen throw doesn't move an inch. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh,” Teddy sighs. Muffled by the blanket, his voice is bare and hoarse. “ _Warm_.”

He thinks better of reaching over, tugging it down. 

“Well leave the blanket then, you invalid.”

There’s a scoffing sound, but then a corner of the tartan folds down, revealing one dark eye. Jacob glances at it, smirks, and then sighs in false judgement. 

“We’re finally out of that place, and you want to _hide_.”

“Feck off,” Teddy groans, but there’s no heat in it; more of a standard grumble. Jacob doesn’t know why he’s so pleased he knows the difference.

“Charming.”

Seems like Teddy-boy just needs time to recoup, and Jacob turns his aching smile away, out the window. 

He can see out clearly, propped up like this, and watching his brash, bull-headed city roll by is comforting. An all-consuming presence in constant movement, London never stops for anything. Not a chance to be discovered, to be caught. Untouchable.

Not for the first time, he lingers on just how much he’s missed it all.

Lost in thought, Jacob absently plays with the fingers remaining on his right hand, holding them in his left, watching as the streets coast by below.

“Frye. Y’alright then?”

“Hm? Could do with some more of whatever they gave us last night.” 

Even as the words leave his lips Jacob’s trembling with fatigue, at once feeling like he’s just run from Blackfriars to Parliament without a breather. How can merely _sitting_ make him suddenly so goddamn knackered?

A huff from Teddy sounds behind in what he thinks is probably agreement, fabric rustling alongside a pitifully weak cough. Pulled tight to keep him warm, no doubt. 

Turning with a soft look, Jacob sees the blanket has finally come down from over Teddy’s head, pooling round his shoulders. 

Still as pretty as before. 

He smiles.

“Hello.”

When Teddy’s lips twitch, it’s the first full smile to cross his face that Jacob’s ever seen.

“Hiya.”

They lock eyes for a brief spell, seeing each other for the very first time, again. 

In bright daylight, yesterday's first sighting through prison bars seems more an exhausted fumble in the dark, both hurt and blind as newborn babes. It sort of _was_ , but the whole event is still such a fuzzy haze of pain and fear, it’s hard to accept that it happened at all.

Anyway, Ted's here now. No need to dwell on the bad when his mate's right here, looking so damn sweet.

Jacob sighs, deciding to ruin the mood instead, and swiftly adopts a neutral expression. 

“That’s enough. You can put the blanket back up now.” 

He catches sight of a fleeting smirk, challenging him, failing to hide his own in terrible fashion.

“Can I?”

“Yeah, sick of lookin’ at you.”

Teddy does grin then, bright and blinding, sunlight cutting across his face like the shine on freshly-polished silver—and sod boxing and cricket, because Jacob has just discovered his new favourite sport.

Sadly, that's when the umpire shows to curb his game.

" _Jacob_! I thought I heard voices. How are you?"

He’s not truly sad, of course. Jacob’s always glad to see Henry, and will be forever grateful for his role in last night’s escape. Greenie’s ducked through the heavy curtain drawn for privacy at the head of the bed, come to linger awkwardly near the bottom. The infamous Ghost of London looking like a spare part, like he doesn’t know whether to stand or perch at the edge. It’s comedic.

"Just peachy, Greenie."

"Good, good. Do you want for anything? The doctor is on board but in the dining carriage." 

Jacob silently notes that the thick tartan blanket has been pulled back up and over Teddy’s head. Saving himself for later, presumably.

Greenie’s donned his usual assassin garb: suspiciously clean white robes, with a dash of paisley in striking ochre. That vivid purple sash, in honour of his royal mother back in India; Jacob’s always thought they suit him well. Sets him apart from the sea of London greys and browns, lends a dashing cut to his kind face. 

The man’s easy gaze looks a little more tired than usual, his complexion not quite so sunny—but there is surely some underlying relief in that disarming smile, Jacob can see it. Happiness, even.

"Got anything for the pain?" 

"Ah, _yes_. Let me—"

Greenie nips briefly back through the curtain, rummaging on the other side. There’s no telltale thump of cabinets, or the roll of drawer casters to provide a clue, but he lights up nonetheless when the man returns, presents a full bottle of laudanum and a teaspoon. Jacob gladly takes the former.

"Oh _Greenie_ , you do know how to spoil a boy."

He notes (but fails to heed) Henry’s horror as he flicks the cork into his bedcovers, downs a gulp straight from the bottle.

"Er—just _one_ spoonful. You don't want to fall comatose. Or worse."

“Don’t be such a spoil-sport. I _need_ this.”

Jacob abso-bloody-lutely does need it, can’t sodding _wait_ for this stuff to kick in. A lot of places ache but his hand most of all is _agony_ , a constant tiresome misery throbbing all the way up to his elbow. Feels like it’s permanently trapped in a loom going full pelt. 

He would like some respite from it for at least a little while. 

After his swig he lets out a long sigh, and then pokes at the lump beside the bed, offering Teddy his share before Greenie goes and takes away their fun.

“Teddy. Would you like to forget _all_ your troubles?”

The blanket whuffs down once more, reveals a wide-eyed Ted.

“Jaysus. _Yes_.”

Looking back to Greenie and his misplaced concern, Jacob fails to hide the hope chewing on his heart, which he’s attempted to keep under wraps till now.

“Where’s, Evie?”

Hating the way his voice cracks, he watches the shifting emotions on Greenie’s mug, at once suspicious.

“She’s out. Out. Had something she needed to do. She’ll be back later.” 

“ _Doing…_?”

Greenie forces a shrug, attempts him half a smile. Jacob narrows his eyes.

“Didn’t really say.”

Greenie’s a terrible liar. He’s not surprised Evie fancies him. 

“Well, _good_. Have some peace and quiet around here.” Jacob cracks the knuckles on his good hand, but his flippant tone is poor at best: he can’t help the glower that settles heavily on him like a growing thunderhead, destroying any illusion of nonchalance.

He’s pissed off. 

Is Evie _so_ embarrassed by his failure, that she can’t even stop by for a word? Ask about his injuries; what happened to him? Is she so _devoid_ of emotion towards her brother, that she cannot bear to look upon him for one measly minute? He was missing for _five days_. If their places had been switched, and Evie was missing—Jacob would be inconsolable. Would tear down the walls of London with his bare hands to find her, and never let go once he did. 

He finds himself wondering why he cares at all, why he aches for someone who can be so cruel.

But it’s simple, really: he loves her.

She’s his best friend. 

Though perhaps, he’s no longer hers.

“I’d better leave you to it. The doctor prescribed rest, more than anything.”

Greenie plucks the bottle from Teddy’s mitts and corks it, takes back the unused spoon while Jacob watches, a sour taste in his mouth. Henry disappears then, passing back through the curtain without so much as a sound; leaves behind a miserable Jacob, a muted Teddy, and the ceaseless roil of the train beneath them.

They pass several minutes in silence.

“How’s the hand?”

“Still two fingers down, three to go.” He glances over, frown breaking when he sees Teddy’s face there, like waves upon rock. “Should be bearable when this kicks in. How’s the foot?”

“Still attached. Better.”

“Good.”

Jacob does care, he truly does, even as he’s abandoned his usual enthusiasm to brood, darkly, out the window. This rift with Evie is a knife between his ribs, sliding deeper every hour they go without speaking—she could be anywhere. 

She could be _here._

“Where are we headed? This train.”

Jacob blinks, but doesn’t turn away from the window, “With Paul’s behind us, I’d say the Chapel.” He’s staring out at the clouds passing by, not truly seeing them. “We’re on a circuit. From there to Waterloo Bridge.”

Ted seems to take this in stride, Jacob can see him lacing his fingers together in the reflection of the window as his mate ventures a careful glance about the carriage, at the curtains, the bed. The crackling grate. 

“You… live here?”

“Yes.” Glancing at Teddy he notes the hint of confusion crossing his face, spies the split on his friend's lip looking better than how Jacob's _feels_ , “This is the hideout they were looking for.” 

Understanding sets in, evens out the furrow between Teddy’s bruised brows. “Ah.”

His mate goes a bit quiet then, but Jacob sees him still taking in the swanky surroundings, probably trying to make sense of it all. In all fairness to Teddy, _none_ of this makes sense; were their places switched, Jacob would surely be far more confused than he. He cuts the man some slack, softening his tone.

“Ever heard of The Rooks?”

“Sure. Big new gang, up and comers? Seen ‘em take on some Blighters and win, so. An enemy of theirs is a friend of mine.”

He can’t stop the grin sneaking through at Teddy’s unwitting praise, “I’m their leader.”

Ted snorts. “Bollocks.”

“It’s true!”

It’s a bit demeaning actually, the way Teddy squints at him, lips pursed like he’s sizing up a bull to market.

“Prove it.”

Smug little fuck. Like Jacob has to prove anything.

He _will_. But he doesn’t _have to_.

This time on a Friday, Asha and Charlotte should be on board. They’re never going to hear him from this distance though… he needs a go-between. 

He turns as much as his shoulder and ribs will allow, sticks two fingers in his mouth and blasts a sharp whistle down the back end of the carriage. Ted winces but Jacob merely smiles, waiting for his call to be picked up.

It takes but a moment.

“Aye, e’rythin’ alright, Jacob? Was that yer whistlin’?”

“Could you be a love and grab me a Rook on board, Agnes? I’ve got something to prove.”

Ted’s suddenly _very_ interested in studying the frayed edge of his tartan, but Jacob knows a called bluff when he sees one—and the tips of those pretty ears are cherry-red from here.

It’s not long at all until his summoned bird appears, comes striding down the car, legs longer than a storks’. Isaac, a new lad, just two— _three_ , he supposes now—weeks in the gang. Jacob’s surprised to see him, maybe shifts got changed whilst he was out of action… he’ll have to check. 

_Anyway_.

Isaac comes to stand where Greenie was loitering not long ago, green sash fluttering at his arm and looking far more sure of himself. “You wanted me, Guv?”

“I’d like you to tell my good _friend_ here, Teddy, which gang you work for, who _I_ am, and who’s your boss.”

Isaac looks between the two of them, clearly finding the asking odd, but he can’t exactly refuse his gang leader now, can he? 

The answer is no, he can’t.

“I work for, The Rooks. You’re Mister Jacob Frye, and _you_ are, sir. You’re my boss.”

“Cheers. Off you trot.”

With a casual wave, Isaac is dismissed. And once the Rook has flown Jacob’s sliding a glance to Teddy, who, to his credit, is looking rather chastened.

“Give us time to get the foot out me gob, alright?”

Jacob chuckles, admiring that Ted knows when to admit defeat. Evie in the same position would likely have argued with him till she was blue in the face, on bloody principle.

Had she even been _here_.

“Nah, you’re good.” The smile Jacob pairs with his reassurance is weak at best, but he just can’t fake it. Perhaps he’s not as subtle as he thinks, with the canny look on Teddy’s. 

Nothing comes of it though, even after a few quiet moments, so he leans back, hurrying along the effects of this medicine with his wishes, wanting to fall into sleep where nothing, physical or otherwise, hurts.

“Frye.” 

He opens his eyes. 

“Hope I didn’t, muck things up. Between you and your sister.”

“Why would you have?” Jacob’s perplexed, can’t even recall Evie being here last night, when Teddy was vaguely lucid, when they’d managed down a small bowl of broth each before passing out.

“I heard her, before. Not wantin’ me along. I get it, you don’t know me from Adam.”

Oh, well. He’s surprised Ted is able to remember anything from the escape, but, fair enough. Even though he’s wrong, this has nothing to do with him. 

Jacob shrugs, winces because he shouldn't have done that, and tries not to let the real issue get to him. 

“It’s not that, Ted. She just didn’t understand. Don’t take it personally.” 

He wishes he could take his own advice.

“Not personal for me.” 

Now isn’t that the truth. 

Jacob doesn’t have the guts right now to inform Teddy of the whole story, nor the inclination. Tell him that this wound between them has been festering for years, ignited slowly, stoked further by their father since they were young, all the way until now, months after his death. 

Something changed, in their teenage years: the focus _shifted,_ until the twins were no longer training to their personal best. They were training against each other. 

And Jacob was always on the back foot in that regard. 

How could he compete? Honestly. No matter what he did, it was never good enough. And even when he _did_ try following the rules laid down, the already-marked laws of engagement, Father would still find ways to point out the flaw in everything he did. Use cruel words to knock the smile off his son’s face, cripple Jacob’s self-pride in his own performance.

Soon it was only brother versus sister, her with the bookie, groundskeep, and judge on her side. 

Him with... no one.

Easier to step away from the corrupted dance altogether, always bow out early.

Easier to be blamed fully for his absence, than picked apart piece by piece for his presence. 

He never blamed Evie for any of it, though heaven knows she blamed him often enough.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. So Jacob chose the latter. Chose not to wade through Father's miasma of made-up bullshit, follow his own path instead. Do whatever the hell he felt like, _whom_ ever he felt like, illegal or otherwise. 

And most importantly, _away_ from home. If it was time for more tedious training or an assassination? He’d do that on his own terms as well.

When Father became ill, just this last winter, Jacob felt no remorse, no desire to help. 

He stayed away from home even more. 

He doesn't regret it. 

What he _does_ regret is not being there for Evie, not helping her fully through pain and loss, even if Jacob never felt it half as intensely as she did. 

He tried to help with the inevitable outcome, with the arrangements and affairs that needed settling. But it was too late, he'd been gone for too long.

And she pushed him away. 

They’ve gotten better together, since then. Never back to their care-free days as children, of course, he never expected that. But there’s always an edge, always an off-hand comment or barb: Jacob tries his damnedest not to let them hurt, toughen his soft skin like armour. But... he's only human.

God, what rotten memories to dwell on.

He’s not dragging Teddy into them.

“It’s nothing to do with you being here, is what I mean.”

Jacob _knows_ he's at fault. He’s run through the situation a thousand times, and what he could have done differently and _better_ a thousand more. Knows he should have stayed outside the mansion, that Evie had everything under control, like she always does. 

And Jacob fucked his part up, like he always does.

But Teddy’s stare warrants further explanation, and Jacob reluctantly obliges.

“On a mission, I deviated from my role. Tried to warn her and Greenie of a new development: someone turned up who shouldn’t have been there, someone dangerous. Turns out they were fine and _I_ got caught.”

Ted frowns. “You tried to warn _them_ , and that landed your arse in a cell.”

Jacob reaches up and rests his good hand over his face, holding it there for a moment, chagrined. Thinking on it now, it's even stupider than he recalls.

“Turns out trying to fight twenty Blighters _by myself_ isn’t the best way to get out of a situation quickly.”

Ted laughs quietly, though it’s not unkind; it eases Jacob’s shame somewhat.

He hears the man burrow deeper into his blanket.

“If you don’t mind me sayin’, mate. None of this sounds like your fault.”

Jacob doesn’t answer. 

His mind keeps alternating between ‘ _of course it’s not my fault, I was only trying to help_ ’, and ‘ _I shouldn’t even have been there and running into a house full of Templars was, in retrospect, an incredibly thick-witted idea_ ’. 

Perhaps the truth is a muddy mixture of both.

He ends up staring miserably at his right hand, limp in the sling, a shameful reminder of his failure not only in protecting Evie how he intended, but himself. 

“Uh, Jacob. Ta. For… you know.”

It takes a skipped beat for him to absorb Teddy's words, but when he does Jacob turns his head with a smile, softer this time. Defeated. 

“Don’t mention it.”

All the man does is return his smile, in that Teddy-way he’s beginning to twig: the edge of his lips twitching, a sly little tilt that sets Jacob a bit more at ease, feeling glad for a friend at his side.

Even if the one person he wants to be, isn’t.

* * *

  
  
Why, whenever he wakes now, is time a bleary, hazy mess?

He’s not sure what time it even _is_ ; dusk, eightish, by the looks of it. Catching a glimpse of a sliver of blackening sky through the gently swaying curtains hung above the shadowed bed. A slight streak of sun hitting the bottom of the clouds, turning them a pale pink.

Jacob doesn’t even have the drive to roll over, get more comfortable. He feels heavy, globular. His gut full of chewed-up toast and laudanum, sloshing around with the roil of the rails. 

At least he’s managed to keep _his_ meal down. Both he and Teddy tried solid food around teatime, but Ted’s ended up straight back in the tray, poor guy. Had to stick to broth. 

Jacob must have fallen asleep soon after that, can’t have been too long ago either, maybe an hour at most. 

If that’s true, then why is he awake now? He usually sleeps like the dead, and _why_ is his hand still throbbing like a meat-grinder, his shoulder aching like cracked masonry, the tonic should have fixed that, damn it. Taken his body's complaints down to a dull roar at the very least. 

As a consolation the carriage is dark and peaceful. A muted track of the usual sounds play about his ears; fire in the hearth snapping and breaking through the logs, books and trinkets shambling along on the shelves. 

Teddy will be behind in the chair, asleep under his tartan, warm and safe. 

Part of Jacob—a hazy, needy part of him that just wants to be _held—_ longs for Ted to slip into the bed behind, they can both rest and doze stretched out. It’s certainly wide enough for them both, on their sides; and being bent and folded in that armchair can’t be good for the fella’s leg. Jacob’s warm, too. Teddy could leech some of that heat, wrap an arm over his middle, body flush behind, tuck his face at his neck and breathe easily. 

It’s a nice thought.

Very stupid. But nice.

And that very stupid but nice thought is at once rudely ripped apart by the bang of a cabin door, wood drubbing; Jacob’s half-wondering, as to who it could be.

“Henry, it’s ruined. The whole operation.”

Evie. 

He’s not seen Evie since they entered the train a night ago. Earlier, that thought would have irritated him to no end, but now... now she’s in the _same room_. He is acutely attuned to her achingly familiar voice, her careful footsteps, the swish of her ridiculous cape. He just wants to _speak_ to her.

Jacob stills, listening to their hushed conversation. 

“Evie, what do you mean?”

Greenie. Jacob supposes he's been behind the drawn curtain all this time, most likely pottering about at the desk engaged in something uninteresting and dull. Probably writing. 

“It’s _compromised_! All our catalogues, manifests, the goods and effects we had stored at Langley Street: _ruined_. Gone.”

His stomach drops.

“Jacob never could figure out when to keep his mouth shut.”

And that may be warranted but by God, it still hurts. The scorn, the _disgust_ in Evie’s voice is a slap to the face.

“Did you learn anything else?”

“Only that we can never use that location again, ever. And it was Lucy Thorne who raided it. Two Rooks died, but does that matter to Jacob? No. Never thinks ahead about anything but himself. Never listens to reason. Is too brash and— _simple_ —to even begin to comprehend the consequences of his actions before it’s too late. I don’t know how many times—”

Jacob squeezes his eyes shut. 

The Templars raided the warehouse he gave up. They took everything, _and killed two of his Rooks_. 

He’s shoving the heel of his hand at his eyes as if he can claw them out, tears hot and blinding on his cheeks. Buries his face in the pillow, maybe to hide his gasping sobs, maybe to smother himself.

He doesn’t know.

Not a _soul_ should have been in that warehouse, he cleared it with Ned only last week. There wasn’t a single delivery due for days. Call him simple, call him brash—Jacob will admit to both, and freely—but he _knows_ , he knows his people’s rounds, would never willingly endanger them—

_Fuck. Fuck!_

His _Rooks_. Jacob won’t rest until he learns their names, where they lived, who their incomes supported. Call on their relatives, be sure they’re provided for, given a monthly allowance equal to their fallen’s wage. Just as he’s done each time before: every loss a blade to his soul, their lives his responsibility to keep, and to mourn. It may yet kill him one day, that grief. 

Death by a thousand cuts.

He forces himself to recall the patrols, who had Langley on their rounds: he knows there was Ray, and Della. But no, they’ve been on duty in Whitechapel for weeks. Lewis then, and Ruby—oh, _Christ_. She’s only seventeen, barely out of nappies. It _can’t_ be her. And Lew has a wife and newborn babe, the glow of new fatherhood on him for months. _No_.

He should have told Evie and Henry the minute— _the second_ he saw them, to clear out the warehouse, get his people away from there as quickly as possible and abandon it.

He could have stopped this.

“How do you know it _was_ him? It could have been any number of informants, we’re not immune to—”

He vaguely hears Henry cut himself off, the click of the car door where Evie entered opens once more, and the conversation stalls. 

Probably Agnes, or the doctor. A Rook, perhaps. Jacob can't hear what's being said, too quiet. Not Agnes then. He doesn’t care. 

The muted barrage starts up again.

“Of course it was him, Henry. Only my brother can make this much of a monumental catastrophe by _standing guard_.” 

“Evie, we don't even _know_ —”

“—I let it slide, when we were unable to take the chest of Assassin records. But now we’ve lost _six days_ of work and research, an _entire_ warehouse and the shipments within, _and_ associates’ lives. If Father was here, he’d blame _me_ for even allowing him along.” 

Damn. He never knew he was _such_ _a burden_ , sounds like even _looking_ for him was too much trouble for Evie. Jacob doesn't know whether to be disgusted or devastated. He settles for a little bit of both. 

And the dig about _Father_ : Evie always thinks it's such a crushing blow to bring him up, how disappointed the old man would be. Jacob doesn't give a _toss_ about what he would have thought. 

It's Evie's opinion he cares about.

Cared about.

“Miss Frye.”

Jacob turns over faster than his aching body wants to allow, gapes at the vacant armchair staring back at him.

"Yes?"

 _Teddy_.

“Your man in there, maybe he cocked-up your mission alright. Call it hubris, call it brass, whatever you like." 

Jacob’s staring at the empty seat, open-mouthed, while on the other side of the curtain, Teddy’s voice only gets stronger, fiercer—even through that odd, gentle cough, a memento of his damp cell.

"But I listened to your brother keep his feckin’ nerve when that twisted bitch took half his hand. Finger by finger, Miss Frye."

He's stunned Evie hasn’t interrupted already, but Teddy presses on.

"Ever hear a man who knows what he’s losin’ as he loses it? Sounds like a soul tearing in two. But your Jacob. He _kept_ his mouth _shut_.”

It begins to dawn on him, that the bloke is on _his_ side. 

Jacob melts downwards into the covers, untensing as he listens, awestruck.

“When he finally cracked, all I could think was ‘thank Christ, he’s seen sense.’ Tried to tell him after, I’d have done the same. But no, says he, _I lied_. He thought your warehouse was empty.”

Teddy remembers all this? Down to the very words that he said? Jacob _barely_ remembers anything.

“The man was so sure you were comin’ for him, I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.”

"But I _was—_ "

“ _Days on end_ we were there, and all he could talk about was you. Evie this, Evie that. Felt like I knew you before I’d ever seen your face.”

Jacob's shocked to learn Teddy was even listening to his rambling, because after a certain point: _Jacob_ wasn't listening. Honestly can't recall half of what he waffled in there, might as well have been delirious. By rights, Teddy should have been, and worse: the bloke was kept days longer than Jacob. Yet somehow, impossibly, he heard. 

He _listened_.

“Turns out I was mistaken: I never could’ve guessed you’d be so feckin’ cold."

The carriage falls silent. Jacob holds his breath. 

"Jacob’s a _good_ man. You don’t deserve him.”

He turns over hastily to face the wall, as if he never woke, when the curtain’s viciously pulled back, ragged closed again. Ted gusts out an exhale that could rival Bertha, like an engine letting off water and steam after a laboriously long haul.

The others share scattered, clipped words before the carriage door slams shut, but Jacob doesn't care.

He's too busy wondering at the man in the chair behind him, rustling his trusty tartan, no doubt cloaking himself from head to toe.

No one, has ever, stood up for Jacob like that. 

_Jacob_ doesn't even stand up for himself like that anymore. He used to at the beginning, with Father, try and argue his every case. _Why_ he did something the way he did, why the _wrong_ thing ended up happening instead of the _right_ , having to justify his very fucking existence every time he spoke. 

_Unsurprisingly_ , that becomes tiring after a while.

The tradition shifted more to Evie when Jacob was around his father less and less, as she became ever more critical, a chip off the old block. Eventually Jacob just gave in to it. Apathy took over, and now he barely has the fire left to explain himself when their fights flare up. Why should he, when no one will listen.

Teddy listened.

 _Made_ Evie listen. 

So much so that she… left.

The carriage sinks back to the quiet of before, though this time feels wildly different. Jacob’s surely on edge, but enhanced hearing aside, he'd hear a pin drop on a wool throw in here. 

He's hyper-aware of every sound: each slide of a spoon on a porcelain cup, the rustle of an open book in the shallow breeze, every crackle of flame in the smouldering grate. Teddy’s strained, quiet breaths.

Jacob opens his eyes. Stares at the wall, trying like hell to keep his voice even. It’s a lost cause.

"Teddy."

The steady, rhythmic hum of rails beneath the car is his only response as they coast through the night. 

" _Thank you_."

Silence settles in, and Jacob’s content to leave it at that. Teddy’s a man of few words, he knows now, and hackles are still raised after that confrontation. Jacob just needed to say it, to let Teddy know he’s heard, and is grateful. 

Of course that’s when he hears Teddy’s shaky inhale, the flicker of him like a quiet light in Jacob’s mind, burning gentle and warm.

It patches the hole in his heart.

“Don’t mention it.”

* * *

For a blissful moment, nothing hurts. 

And then Jacob’s gasping through clenched teeth, clutching his burning hand, can’t even open his bloody eyes before the pain comes flooding in, stinging through his very bones.

Turns out that moment was far briefer than he’d have liked, in more ways than one.

"Hey... sleepyhead."

Bewildered by the sudden voice at his back, Jacob cranes a pained look over his aching shoulder, brows etched with disbelief upon seeing _Evie_ sat awkwardly in Teddy’s chair, a careful smile painted on her face.

He doesn’t believe his own eyes.

As if to prove him wrong, she holds out the laudanum and cocks her head.

"This might help?"

Jacob’s suspicions don’t falter as he slowly sits up, turning gently so his ribs don’t pinch, and reaches for the green glass bottle. Uncorks the lid, warily. 

"Is it poisoned."

He notes a flash of surprise cross Evie’s round face, unsettled by his tone. 

Good.

"No, of course not."

He takes a swig of the medicine, wipes his mouth and hands it back. He’s hurting too much to refuse. 

Jacob foisted his first thought aside at the shock of seeing Evie, but he certainly hasn’t forgotten: frowning a look around the carriage, he’s wondering where Teddy’s gone. Hesitant to believe she’s thrown the man off the train while Jacob slept, even after last night’s exchange.

If you can call it that. 

Usually exchanges, you know, _exchange_ something. Between two people. _That_ was a bloodbath. And a small part of Jacob is smug, bathes in it.

"Where's Ted?"

Again, Evie looks ruffled by Jacob’s bluntness, and he can see her every move trying to hide it.

"I offered him one of the private cabins and he took it."

Her answer comes out a little too quickly, a bit too rehearsed for Jacob’s liking: it’s something he knows she does when she’s nervous. He’s caught her warming up before—asking out imaginary blokes in the mirror at home, or reciting memorised passages from one of Father’s musty old books—far too many times to count. 

He just stares at her, dully.

"He's still on the train, Jacob."

He supposes he believes her this time, _barely_. Tries not to show it. Leans back instead against the headboard, the pillow he’s managed to prop up inelegantly, trying and failing to cross his arms with the sling, settling for a skeptic’s sigh instead. Then Evie speaks.

"I'm sorry. That I haven't been here."

Jacob doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve been distant since we found you, and I was wrong for that. I’m angry with myself for allowing any of this to happen. I felt powerless.”

He takes this time to appreciate her apology, because they’re as rare as rocking-horse shit.

It’s still not enough.

“I didn’t want to sideline you during the mission. But I really _was_ fearful that three of us would be one too many.”

She sounds genuine and Jacob peeks at her from the corner of his eye, doesn’t move his head.

“When Henry and I couldn’t find you, I panicked. I had The Rooks double back, confirm you weren’t out anywhere with them.”

He _knew_ she’d think he was out gallivanting when he didn’t show up. Typical.

“After that, I had everyone looking for you. Sergeant Abberline handed us several promising leads, and Mister Topping gave his word he’d keep an eye out around his shadier dealings. Clara had her network with their ears to the floor, and even Mister Wynert had his contacts place all known Templar warehouses and hideouts under watch. Actually had men out already, looking for an associate they’d not heard from, which was helpful for us.” 

Jacob slowly relaxes while listening to Evie, surprised and slightly awed.

“ _All_ these people care, Jacob. They wanted you safe. None more so than I.” 

Well, isn’t that something to think on. 

And yet.

“I still don’t understand why you left.”

He watches Evie glance down at his crippled hand laid in the sling, at his arm where the dressing hides twenty-two stitches running its length—her wide, stupefyingly blue gaze searches his face, black eye and cuts galore. He’s sure she’s taking it all in.

“I couldn’t abide to look at what they did to you, I… I was furious with myself. That I had failed.”

That’s a nice sentiment, until Jacob remembers the way they were indoctrinated as children: honed into living weapons of precision, forced into seeing everything that didn’t go _perfectly_ , as failure. Nice sentiment in theory, complete bollocks in practise. He stops just short of a scoff.

“Failed who? Father?”

“I failed _you_.”

Oh.

The sincerity in Evie’s admission knocks him for six, cracks a slugging right hook filled with raw vulnerability straight into his jaw. Jacob drops all previous derision, long forgotten on the train car floor. She’s never admitted anything like this to him in all their years.

“—but that’s no excuse for me not being around, I’m sorry.”

It’s _so long_ since he’s been at the centre of anything when it comes to Evie, he’s always felt like a gnat, buzzing on the outer limits of her life. 

To finally hear he’s... he’s a priority of hers. 

It’s world-altering.

Even in light of her change of heart, he’s not going to sugarcoat anything: ply her with lies that she _didn’t_ fail him, or that it’s fine she stayed away. That’s not how he operates. So instead Jacob slips his right arm out the brace, reaches over with his injured hand to quietly take up hers, resting in the covers between them. Curling his palm over hers, he gives her a small, muted smile.

“I missed you.”

It seems to happen in slow motion, the mid-morning light glinting behind as Evie stands, slips a hand gently round his broader shoulders. Perches her slight weight on the edge of the bed, and wraps him up in the embrace that he's craved for so long.

Yielding like warm butter, he all but melts against her. Evie has her chin tucked over his good shoulder, speaking her soft words against the nape of his neck. 

" _I missed you too_."

Overcome by everything, and pushing sudden sparse tears into the collar of Evie’s shirt, Jacob doesn’t realise he’s shaking until her hand carefully rubs up and down his back: calming him, grounding the sore heart that wants to fly out of his chest. _God_ , how he’s needed her.

" _I'm so glad you're back_." 

Evie sounding heartsick is altogether foreign, but her sincerity fills him up more than an entire feast could, her words breathed earnestly into his skin. 

Jacob holds her even tighter, bringing a hand up to cup the back of her neck, fingertips brushing her satiny hair. He pulls her in, closer. 

She smells like she always does, fierce and invulnerable. Don’t ask him how that smells. It's simply a memory harking back to their childhood, how he’d look up to her, watch in wonder at everything she did, and did it perfectly. Even when he acted the worst kind of obstinate prick, he still idolised her. 

Jacob has always been in awe of his sister, for as long as he’s lived. That is never going to change.

“ _Jacob_ , I can’t breathe.” 

“Uh, sorry.” He loosens the hold around her waist and she pulls back, not enough to leave his arms but enough to look him in the eye with the kindest expression he’s seen on her in far too long. 

A gentle and cleansing sigh, she tilts her head.

“How do you feel? Despite, the obvious.”

“Knackered. And starving.”

She seems strangely pleased with that response. Jacob watches with some intrigue as she carefully returns to the chair, leaves behind a gaping hole where she was once tucked snug beside him.

“Ah. Well you’ll be pleased to learn I was told there’s a hearty meal waiting in the dining carriage for you.”

He slips his arm back in the sling, swollen shoulder beginning to ache, but for the first time in a long while, he feels at ease. 

“That _is_ good news. You ate?”

She nods, tips a glance over her shoulder with a hopeful smile.

“How about I pull the copper tub out, and you can have a soak after your meal?” 

That’s awfully nice of her, and a bath sounds heavenly right about now. He could certainly get used to this new line of treatment, and beams back with a nod.

Evie smirks. “Good. You smell like a dead rat.”

He’s a little annoyed that drags a laugh from him, wrinkling his nose and flicking her arm while she swats his hand away, and suddenly they’re young again.

“Pretty sure that’s _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More drama I'm sorry! but at least it got resolved in the same chapter this time...?...! 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Potato poultice** : the poultice Jacob licks is made of potato! Spuds can be used to treat black eyes and eye ailments in general
> 
>  **Jacob's freckles** : he has freckles damnit they're not as pronounced as Evie's but they are there! I will not stand for this Jacob Freckle Erasure, not on my watch 
> 
> **The Chapel** : Victorian slang way to refer to Whitechapel. Just makes sense to shorten it


	9. i try to talk refined for fear you find out, how i'm imagining you

Since he patched things up with Evie, these last few days have been a sunny whirlwind of laying about and doing bugger-all, and Jacob could not be more pleased.

His hand hurts less every day, and it’s good to be clean again; rather than a mangle of five different layers of grime and dirt in the shape of a human. This morning marked his _third_ bath in two days, another shave, and even a dash of cologne—God, it feels wonderful.

Another hearty breakfast today as well—thick-cut bacon, greasy pork sausage, fried-up eggs, and marmalade toast. Everything a growing boy needs to return to form. Best of all, Jacob feels his strength coming back to him, more and more each passing day. 

He’ll be back to gallivanting about London in no time. 

Of course, sod’s law remains Jacob’s least favourite, but most prolific, bedfellow: hence the nasty stack of paperwork shoved right under his nose after breakfast.

Something had to bring him back down from those stirring highs. 

And all of this to say, Jacob currently finds himself seated in what he’s fondly coined as the Rooks’ carriage, thinks of it as theirs.

He has the booth to himself and his cursed stack of paperwork, likely because in this late-afternoon light, the thing’s a blasted suntrap. 

He’s poring over contracts and credentials, dossiers and deeds, leases and legalities. So much to sort through, the bloody things are coming out of his ears.

At least he has a full stomach, and an almost-empty pint from the bar (his first in over a week!) to get him through this nightmare.

Upon second thought, keep the pint—he’d much prefer the option to stand another light beating than sift through this dull shit. 

Unfortunately, no one’s thought to give him the choice. Jacob pushes damp hair from his face with a sigh, and gets down to brass tacks.

“ _Ho, Boss_!”

 _Oh_. A distraction. Perfectly timed.

“Hey, lads!”

“Oh, Boss, we’re happy you’re back and feelin’ better—”

“—yeah, so ‘appy—”

“—me ‘n Resh were worried there for a sec. Weren’t we, Resh.”

”Sure were, Boss.”

Pushing papers aside, Jacob gives the pair his full attention: Tommy and Reshma have been part of his gang from the start, since that very first week in Whitechapel. Originally part of the Clinkers, and instrumental in convincing more to join ranks with the up-and-coming Rooks.

Reshma took the egg in the first round of arm wrestling in the Seven Bells on her debut night. Jacob doesn’t remember much of that, but he _does_ remember she won... he thinks. Or maybe someone told him. Either way, top lass. 

And Tommy’s a good sort, always gets his jobs done on time. Usually with an added bonus, like an extra crate of ale turning up on the train after every escort mission. Can’t go wrong.

“ _I_ was for a moment. What’s the word? Anything of interest?”

“Tommy ‘ere, just this mornin’, some Blighters got shirty wi’us so he sent ‘em scarperin’ for their mums’ wi’that spankin’ new duster you gave us, Boss.”

Jacob huffs a laugh, sees the proud little smirk make a comfortable home on Tommy’s round face. “Glad it’s working out. I’m _actually_ looking into getting a hold of some similar stuff, right now. Barkers and long irons, the like.”

Jacob taps a finger atop the document pile in front of him, never mind that these particular papers are to do with acquiring the Rook’s second pub in the city, and not about new weapons shipments. He’s not even gotten to those yet. Bugger.

“That’s _great_ , Boss.”

“—yeah, _great_!”

“Er, but, we gots rounds to do, so…”

Tommy jerks his thumb behind, towards the carriage doors and Jacob nods, letting them go. The pair wander off, and he laments, absently scratching the stitches in his left forearm where they've just begun to itch. 

His Rooks are about as interested in logistics as he is, but unfortunately _Jacob_ can’t leave. He has to plow on.

Who’d have thunkit; there’d be downsides to being head of an illegal street gang? The man at the top? Boss, Governor, Chief. 

Granted, there’s not many—but the paperwork is definitely one of them.

“I told ya we got the best boss. Beats that Blighter nut any day of the week.” 

Jacob smiles to himself at their mumbled back and forth, before they disappear around the corner to the next carriage.

He’s had a few similar visits since he parked it; the odd Rook or two popping by to wish him well, impart a piece of new information, give him a slap on the shoulder. All the lovely stuff he’s missed. 

He _needed_ a bit of cheering, after what he’s had to do this morning.

Starting the workday with funeration and family stipends is never his first choice of business—or anyone’s, honestly—but it sorely needed to be done. As leader, Jacob carries the painful task of writing condolence letters: this time, to the families of his two Rooks, killed during the Templar raid on their Langley Street warehouse.

The warehouse whose position _he_ gave away. 

Jacob swallows, so hard it hurts.

Lewis Ward and Ruby Price. Twenty-one and seventeen, respectively. Taken well before their time. Lewis leaves behind a wife and newborn, and Ruby, she only just had her birthday before she joined. 

_Unfair_ isn’t even the word. 

If he sits here thinking about them any longer—what he could have done differently, how he could have prevented this—then Jacob’s going to while away his hours till he's the one rotting in the grave. He needs to stop.

So he clears his throat, pinches his brows. Breathes out slow and even, emptying deep sorrow from his lungs. 

He pops another couple of buttons on his shirt, feels the heat of the sun hot on his skin. No complaint here, it’s damn good to be out in the light. He’ll never take it for granted another day in his life, even if he’s roasting like a pig in here. The train will turn soon, put him in the shade, Jacob can stand it.

Speaking of cooling off, he necks the dregs remaining at the bottom of his pint, wipes his mouth. He’ll get up and grab another one soon. 

Rolls his shoulder carefully, slips it out of the sling so he can write. The swelling has lessened somewhat, he’s just trying to push away some of the ache from sitting in this same position for so long. 

Sighing, because this has to happen, Jacob turns his attention back to the papers like they’re a life-long adversary.

Still here. 

Haven’t left. 

Bugger it.

Yet another reason he’s avoiding the rest of this writing, is his damned hand.

Jacob’s pretty adept at using both equally, especially for brawling and traversing the city, but for writing he’s always relied on his right. 

More the fool, him.

That’s a shade more difficult now, seeing as there’s half the bloody thing missing, the other half restricted by bandages. Trying to hold a pen steady, keep from laying the raw edge of his palm on the table, _and_ get the finished script past something resembling a chicken in the throes of a stroke? Nearly impossible.

He managed to adequately finish the condolence letters after numerous failed attempts (which is honestly what drove him to drink in the first place). Now though? Shipping manifests and intel bunkum? Doesn’t exactly warrant his full attention, or effort. 

Still, Jacob’s trying.

Although with his third attempt to write out this blasted list of warehouse requirements going about as naff the first and second disasters, he feels like he’s losing the plot. Giving up for now, Jacob falls just short of an irritated growl and shoves the botched paper aside, drops the pen along with it and his head in his hands.

Maybe he’ll get that second pint sooner than he thought.

“There he is. The man himself.”

 _Oh_. Another well-timed distraction.

And _what_ a distraction at that.

Teddy’s sauntered in from nowhere fast, propping himself at the head of the booth in a charming slouch, frothy pint aloft in each hand. Taller than Jacob even lounging, Ted’s wiry frame is clad in spares from the Rook’s surplus supplies: a fresh white shirt, sleeves rolled up and coupled with an open green waistcoat, and a pair of fitted black plaid trousers that leave little to Jacob’s lively imagination.

The man sure looks good in Rook colours.

More notably, he’s clean shaven, showing off those fine cheekbones to their absolute best. It’s a relief to see his black eye and split lip nearly healed as well; Ted’s looking altogether sprightlier. Spruced up well too, that thick hair parted to one side, a couple of dark curls falling down his forehead. Jacob longs to fiddle with them, see if they’re truly as soft as they look. Sample that freshly-revealed jawline with his lips. Leave keener marks on Teddy, kiss over the ones of hurt that linger still.

He makes a silent note to maybe have a wank later on. Get this out of his system.

It's been a while.

“Evie said I’d find you working.”

Jacob tries not to look pleased.

“It has been known to happen.” 

He fails.

His mate takes the seat opposite, slides Jacob a full tankard between the papers on the table top, brimming with ale. 

“I’ll confess, I didn’t believe her.”

Cheeky fuck.

“Where _do_ you find all this faith in me?”

No prompt needed, he takes up his gifted jar for a hearty swig. Teddy smirks into his own and licks the lingering foam from his top lip, staring straight at Jacob. 

God almighty.

“Paperwork doesn’t suit you.”

Jacob agrees, picks up his abandoned list anyway and re-reads the first scratching lines he’s added.

"It most certainly does not." 

Teddy looks amused at his dour tone, quietly nursing his beer and watching Jacob work. Those deep dark eyes fixed on him are not distracting at all, and he absolutely has not read the same sentence three times already.

“That’s a lot of manifests.”

Jacob feigns a sigh and drops the paper, latching onto the nearest excuse to do so.

“Funnily enough, when the boss disappears for over a week, this stuff doesn’t get done by itself.”

Usually this paperwork stuff trickles in, day by day, and it's not as bothersome for him to tackle. But this _clog_ is downright obnoxious.

Eyeing him carefully all the while, Teddy reaches slowly for the forsaken page and pen, studying the former once settled back in his seat. 

Bemused, Jacob takes an over-long sup of ale, studying _Teddy_ as the train turns, and the shadows from the window dance across his face. He’s noticed it before, but Ted has a soft brown mole above his left cheekbone: like a gift, or a gem from the sun. 

Jacob thinks it’s simply _darling_. 

His mate’s still scouring the page, no doubt reading over the offer scrawled there: Jacob’s half-hoping he can finish the whole of it for him.

“Worthington Transport? You’re joking.” 

Jacob raises an eyebrow at the recognition, intrigued. 

“I know these warehouses. Down Southwark-way, yeah?”

“Yeah. You familiar?”

“A bit. I take my orders at Sterry Street, goin’ on three years now.”

Jacob sets his drink down with a thud.

“You work for Ned?!”

“Ned Wynert, yeah. Or I did. Doubt he’ll keep me on, after that monumental cock-up.”

He can’t believe it, Teddy-boy’s worked for Wynert all along and he never even knew! Goes to show how secretive the bloke really is. And Jacob knows better than to go asking personal questions of strangers, prison cell-mates, hell-mates or otherwise: he’s learnt the hard way, and had the bruises to show for it. 

Although Ted’s far more than a stranger, now.

And he looks genuinely dismayed at the very thought of losing his position: beneath that quiet indifference Jacob can see true worry taking shape, and tries to get him to buck up.

“No, Ned’s a decent guy. He’ll understand what happened.”

The man looks unconvinced.

“ _You_ don’t even know what happened.”

Jacob shoots him an easy smile. “Try me.”

Ted sighs.

“My contact never showed. Lifted some shiny off the docks, got caught by those Blighter bastards with a cart full of their crates.” 

Jacob furrows his brow, wishing he’d have been there. 

“Didn’t you fight back?”

Teddy only slants him a _look_ , as if Jacob should already know the answer. “Not really the fightin’ type, me. Tried to run, cocked that up too. Same feckin’ thing I warned him, months ago. Wynert needs to put guards on _every_ heist, not just his biggest fish.”

His mate looks a bit worn out with the way he’s fidgeting as he speaks, like this has stressed him before, more than the once. 

Makes sense, seeing as he almost _died._ Would have, without Jacob’s intervention. 

“So you were on a run, by yourself? And with no weapons?”

“Was supposed to be routine,” Ted shakes his head, glum. “I would have dropped the cache and scarpered, but. Busted my ankle, didn’t I.”

Thinking on it, Wynert’s only ever taken the lightest degree of protection wherever he’s required any assistance from Jacob, and even that’s been few and far between. He should offer more Rooks, tighter escorts. Make sure all associates are armed with at least a shiv and an iron. Extra for night escorts and the like. 

Anyway, it’s _Ned_ who has all the hookups for weapons, so why the hell isn’t he arming his men?

“Probably thinks I skipped town with his shipment. You, uh. Wouldn’t have a way to get in touch with him, would you?”

“Yeah, I can get a message to him.” More than happy to help, Jacob slides a new piece of thick parchment paper across the booth; Teddy already has his fountain pen. “I’ll have one of my Rooks take it personally.” 

“Oh. Cheers.” 

As the train takes another corner and shifts them facing east, the warm booth slips into shadow, that’s when Jacob notices a hint of pink in Teddy’s cheeks. He ponders absently to himself what description would suit them best; a pale white rose petal speckled with roseate powder, or fine plate china covered with ground saffron, or perhaps the white tile of a butcher’s shop splattered with pig guts. 

Truly, he could write sonnets.

Though perhaps that last one's not really in keeping with the tone he’s going for. 

By now Teddy’s begun his note, pen flicking deftly across the paper like a man possessed. Jacob wants to ask him something, he doesn’t know what yet, but he wants to talk, learn more about Ted, have him smiling again.

Before he gets anywhere near that however, he’s shaken out of it by a shout and heavy footsteps pounding louder, closer, turning in time to see Maggie P. come barreling round the corner, long chestnut hair swiped out of her sweaty face with a spent huff.

“Guv! I ‘eard you were up ‘n about! We missed ya Friday!”

Jacob curls up a grin, looking up to her six foot towering over them: a tall Northern lass and broader than most blokes, you certainly wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her. Maggie’s a gentle soul though, and her giddiness is overwhelming, trained on Jacob with fullest force.

“That’s awful nice of you, Mags. I hope no one held back ‘cause I wasn’t there?”

She shakes her head with vigour, “Dun’t think they know how!” 

Her laugh is contagious.

“I, came t’see if ya needed owt?” 

“Oh, no. I’ve got more than I need, thank you.”

Mags finally fixes her wild green eyes squarely on Teddy, pinning him like a butterfly to a board with only a jut of her chin. 

“Ooh’s this?”

Jacob slips on a smirk and braces his good elbow on the table, eyes more on Maggie than Ted, but clearly laying it on thicker than treacle.

“ _This_ is Teddy, my new coachman. I’m treating him to a pint.”

“Ah, well, nice t’meet ya, I’m Maggie.”

“ _Uh_ , hiya. A pleasure.”

“‘Ope you’ll be joinin’ us this Friday, Teddy?”

Ted’s looking caught like a fish in a barrel, and Maggie has her Derringer trained right between his eyes: Jacob opts to save him a slow death. Figuratively, this time.

“—He’ll be there, how else will I make it home?”

Maggie laughs and Jacob does too, turning to grin in Teddy’s direction and loving every moment. 

“On second thought, Mags: Who’s on board right now?”

“Oh, ah, well see there’s Ben ‘n Polly are in the car dinin’, and Kenny ‘n ‘arris H., they were comin’ to see you too. Think they’re finishin’ up in the munitions carriage. Why, Guv?”

“Hm.” Jacob ponders the list of names and his fastest and most reliable, running a hand through his damp hair, slicking it back. ”Have Kenny stop by in ten or so minutes, I have an assignment for him.”

“Will do, Guv. You stay safe now, ya ‘ear?”

“I’ll try my best.”

Jacob watches her disappear from the corner of his eye, but he’s really watching Teddy. The bloke gives her a mannerly nod—such a _gentleman—_ before turning back, and slanting Jacob one disbelieving brow.

“Your _coachman_?”

He ignores that, turns his smile on instead. Settles both elbows on the table and tests the warm waters. 

"She likes _you_."

Teddy only snorts into his pint, seemingly finished with his missive as he scrawls a curling signature with his free hand. 

Hm, no dice. Still worth a try, even knowing Mags is well and truly spoken for—she’s been seeing Asha, another Rook and a lass from down ‘minster way. He’s stumbled upon them in the munitions carriage, of all places, in a… _compromising_ position. More than once, actually.

While Teddy’s finishing up his letter to Ned, Jacob reaches for the envelopes he’ll need and wordlessly passes them over. Casually trades him for the pen and begins writing out his own small note, going slow and careful with every stroke. 

Jacob gnaws his lip away from the split that’s healing nicely, recalling a mention by Evie the night they made amends: that Ned already had people out looking before she’d ever asked, something about an associate gone missing.

Even a gormless josser could infer that man was Teddy. 

He grins. “You _know_ , I have a feeling that Wynert will take you back. Even if I have to persuade him myself.”

Teddy’s busy tucking his letter inside the fold of the envelope, but he only has eyes for Jacob.

“You were right about one thing, Frye.”

Jacob raises a brow.

“You don’t take no for an answer.”

Evie would call him stubborn, that he’s displaying improper pig-headedness (yes, a phrase she’s used in all seriousness). And Father would cuss him out for his disobedience, punish him for his unfavorability—once or twice going so far as to give him the belt, the sour bastard.

Jacob’s well-aware that he’s stubborn, feels like he has to prove himself, that he won’t take no for an answer; he’s heard it all his life. 

But _never_ with such roguish approval before. 

He likes it. 

Preening in the compliment, Jacob finishes up his note with a shambles of a signature and smiles, chuffed.

“I take it from your tone, that's a good thing?”

Teddy only smirks, in that maddening _wouldn’t you like to know_ , _Frye_ way of his, the one that has Jacob’s toes curling in his boots. And then he’s back to business, tapping a finger on the abandoned list of earlier, hopping right in. 

“Right, I know the warehouse at Sterry’s got a loading bay like you’ve never seen the size. Tucked back from the main road too, like. Ned’s no fool.” 

“Cellar?”

“Big one, yeah. Even with it sittin’ on the docks.”

“The one we lost was nowhere near the docks, so it’s already an improvement.” Jacob muses, almost to himself. A glance up to Teddy sees the fella scratching notes in the document margins; curiosity sparked, Jacob’s reaching for his near-empty tankard, scratches at the stitches in his arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Finishing your list,” says Teddy loftily, as if it should be obvious. “Any other requests?”

Jacob’s never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he does smile, more than grateful for the help. “At least three stories, and no windows in the roof.”

Teddy nods.

“—and none on the ground floor.”

The pen nib squeaks with every added detail. Jacob finds himself observing Teddy instead, while he offers a few more; quietly noting his mate’s managing to do a pretty good job at copying his script style, if he can be said to even have one. Impressive.

“Seems you’re a man of many talents.”

“But they’re wasted on a coachman, see.”

He laughs.

“You’ll have to rise through the ranks. Work a bit _harder_.”

Jacob only winks, cocksure as he plucks the wax stick and closed envelope from Ted’s side of the table, moving to seal both notes for Ned. Best to get them finished before his umpteenth interruption drops in.

“Mister Frye! You called for me?”

Too late.

“I sure did, Ken.”

Ah, Kenny. What an ace lad, and skilled Rook to boot, despite his lack of years and apparent brights. He’s arrived a bit earlier than expected, but that’s the kind of initiative Jacob loves to see in his Rooks. 

He glances him an approving nod as the kid skids to a stop with a twiggy energy that gives Jacob fatigue simply witnessing it.

“ _Oh_ , I am _so_ glad to see you, sir. Me mum says she hopes you’re feelin’ better.”

Jacob chuckles fondly. “I am, tell her not to worry.”

“Well I definitely _was_ , sir, Roz sed you’d lost your _whole_ hand but I knew that’d never happen, you wouldn’t let it. Plus Toby sed you did away with over _thirty_ Blighters escapin’ ‘n I believed it, Mister Frye, I did, some didn’t but I sed you’d definitely be able to do it, even with _one_ hand.”

Taking the jabber in his stride, Jacob is _thriving_ with the look on Teddy’s face, but raises his wounded hand, pointing at it with the other.

“As you can see, Kenny, I have most of it left.”

“Oh, _good_. ‘Cos you know, Cat even heard from Peggy who talked to Trevor, that you’d lost an _arm_ in the fight outta there.”

Jacob scoffs, leaning forward on the table top with papers strewn beneath his elbows, and aims Teddy a _pointed_ look.

“Glad to see there’s so much faith placed in my abilities today.”

“I don’t think they meant nothin’ hurtful by it, Mister Frye.”

“Only pulling your leg, Ken.”

The light in the booth increases inchmeal, returns to full force as Bertha goes straightening out on the tracks. Kenny looks to be peering at Ted through the brightness with some uncertainty, like he’s trying to do sums in his head with little luck. 

Jacob tries to bite down his creeping smile, glancing between the two.

“Hello, sir. Are you a—a new Rook?”

“ _Uh_.”

“ _Teddy’s_ my bodyguard.”

Everyone falls quiet.

“What with, _you know_ —” Jacob waves his hand again, pulling an exaggerated wince, “I needed some extra protection.”

It appears Kenny’s having a thought, and then looks to have reluctantly accepted the outcome of that thought within a matter of seconds. Jacob is _not_ looking at Teddy.

“Um... _good_ , that’s good, sir.”

The young Rook seems like he wants to ask, _hm_ , roughly ten more questions, nine most likely featuring Teddy and how he doesn’t look like he can take care of himself, let alone Jacob. The last one is probably about closing the blinds, as the boy squints their way in the dazzling sun.

Jacob simply grins, going for utter sincerity in Ken’s direction, and sinful suggestion in Ted’s.

“ _Kenny_ , back to the entire reason I asked you here: can you deliver these messages to Ned Wynert for me? He needs to receive them as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Mister Frye. You can count on me.”

Kenny takes the two envelopes from Jacob’s hand like they’re made of glass, tucking them carefully inside his jacket before sending a snappy salute, and he’s off with a pleasant farewell.

Jacob turns to Teddy in good time, soaking up that deliciously incredulous look on his face

He loves being Ted’s favourite wind-up merchant.

“Seems you got that promotion early, Neill.”

Jacob’s charming snark finally gets a soft laugh out of Ted, making all of it worthwhile. 

“Somehow less believable than the last.”

He's already finished his pint and now Ted’s doing the same, tipping his tankard to quaff the last few lingering drops. 

Jacob’s staring at Teddy’s throat, watching his Adam's apple bowing up and down, eyes trailing south to the gap in Ted’s collar, the thin chain resting there. He wants to kiss that throat, slide a hand past that collar and trail his fingers over his chest, downwards...

“Jacob.”

Rip the buttons off and leave Teddy with nothing on but that necklace, and Jacob.

“Mister Frye?”

He blinks lazily from his daydream to find Tim, one of his older Rooks, standing awkwardly just outside the booth.

“Jacob, Miss Evie has sent for you, in the study. She says it’s important.”

“So important she couldn’t come herself?”

Tim looks as if he’s an opinion brewing but is too wise to share it, and Jacob’s not really looking for one anyway. 

Typical Evie. Ruining his fun. 

“Thanks, Tim. I’ll be along.”

The Rook gives him a nod and shuffles off, that’s his job done.

Ted sets both hands decisively on the table.

“I’ll be off as well. There’s a plate of somethin’ hot with my name on it.”

Hm, an excellent idea. Jacob’s already hungry, another meal sounds just the thing: but sisters need tending to, first. 

He carefully slides out from the table and pushes to his feet with a bit of a wince, still sore in some places. Most, if he’s honest. He retrieves his sling and slips it over his head, cradling his arm; without the desk to rest it on, he’ll need the support. This paper tripe will still be here when he gets back, unfortunately, so he’s leaving it. 

Turning back to Teddy, he waits until his mate’s standing to leave him an affectionate grin.

“May I recommend the lamb pie with gravy?”

Ted’s dark brows raise, clearly eager at the thought, and Jacob silently awards himself full marks for cleverness. He’ll put some meat back on Teddy’s bones, yet. 

“Perhaps I should listen to you more often,” Teddy agrees, rare hint of that smile shining through—the real one, Jacob notes, that’s bright and warm as a summer morn at the seaside. Reminds him of salty air and fried dough, and tales of buried treasure.

“And you were right about another thing, back in the cell.”

Jacob preens. “I know. About what?”

That smirk, again.

“You _have_ got a pretty face.”

_Oh._

And then Teddy’s gone, leaves Jacob standing in the aisle like a slapped trout. He _feels_ like one. Or maybe that trout’s fishmonger, who’s just found an emerald in its belly.

A pretty face.

Ted’s not wrong, but this sparks up all those possibilities that have been on a low simmer in the back of Jacob’s mind. That Teddy’s into blokes, _into Jacob_ , which is… fucking _brilliant_ , if true.

Completely preoccupied, he begins a slow journey to the study, mind racing a mile a minute. 

Maybe he’s seeing something that isn’t there. Perhaps it was only a compliment? A very _pointed_ compliment, delivered with a look really only suited to a brothel’s back room. And framed by that devious smirk, the one Jacob wishes he could kiss right off Ted’s face.

But, is that something regular mates _say_ to each other? Blokes who only enjoy women's company, not blokes who enjoy— _more_ , than just women? Or was he joking? And why's Jacob even asking himself, he hasn't ever spoken to anyone who's outright admitted they do. 

“Get it together, Jacob.”

He's thinking himself in bloody circles.

Right, okay. Teddy said _one_ thing that perhaps _maybe_ , if you wrote it down and squinted at it on a full moon in September, could be perceived as some kind of advance. 

He decides that maybe further research is needed here, a bit more poking, get Ted to slip up and confirm it. Research is not exactly Jacob’s cup of tea, but he’s more than willing to play the long game: if there exists even the ghost of a chance for this, it will be well worth it.

Because Jacob truly _does_ like Teddy, enjoys his company far more than he first realised. The man is clever, and quick with a joke, and quite poorly hiding a soft heart beneath all those thorns. And Jacob fancies the fuck out of him. 

What more incentive could he need to make it worth his while?

* * *

“ _All aboard_!”

Bertha lets out a shock of steam as her wheels begin turning, slowly gaining out of Whitechapel Station. 

Jacob listens wistfully to the chug of the furnace, the rattle of metal as she gets up to speed, and sighs. It's been a day since he’s tied up the bulk of the paperwork, and he's bored as sin.

Been lounging in his and Evie’s cabin, pulled the armchair closer by the hearth, half contemplating if he should vault up onto the roof to sit and watch the sunset, it’ll be upon the city soon enough.

He’s received missives from Ned and Freddy in that time, both glad he’s back in safe hands. Jacob didn’t even try to quash the smile on his face reading them. 

The former assured him that Teddy would be spared the chopping block, but that it had _nothing_ to do with Jacob’s note on the matter. _Sure_. 

And the latter, grateful for one less thing to worry about, now that Jacob's found. He knows Freddy must have been worried sick, imagines his poor mutton chops drooping at the thought of a lost Frye. 

Jacob kicks up his feet in front of the fire and settles back in the chair. Maybe he’ll take a look at the sunset after a light doze, he’s comfy now.

As the doctor ordered, he’s been taking it easy. Thanks to that he’ll be up for a stroll about town soon, which places the exciting prospect of buying some shiny new togs on Regent Street at the forefront of his mind. Evie’s given him some shopping suggestions or ten, but he thinks he’ll go on the fly, never knows what might take his fancy.

“Thought I might find you here.”

Speaking of fancy.

“Are you saying I’m predictable?” Jacob asks breezily, smiling without opening his eyes.

Teddy strolls up the carriage, footfalls careful on the carpet behind, but Jacob can hear every single one.

“Face it, Frye. I’ve got you pinned.”

Oh, _if only_.

“Here to put your feet up? Think there’s a spare blanket for your old bones.”

Teddy scoffs, rounding on his little corner by the fire and sidling near, enough to prop an elbow on the back of Jacob’s armchair.

“Actually. I’ve, uh. Come to say goodbye.”

Now that gets his eyes opening. Jacob tilts his head back to look up at Teddy, viewing the man upside down. “Leaving so soon?”

“Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Jacob frowns, wondering what’s brought this on. “Has my sister said something to you?”

Teddy’s brows knit together. 

“Haven’t seen her. But I call at London Bridge station, so I thought, if you’ve a spare moment...”

He jumps at the chance. “—That I can walk you home?”

Teddy’s throat bobs. “I— _yeah_ , that’s—if you like.”

Jacob grins. “My turn to play bodyguard. Don’t worry, I’ll walk you all the way to your stoop.” 

And find out if you _actually_ fancy me, he doesn’t say, or if you’re just a giant bloody beautiful tease on legs.

His clever little aside tugs out Ted’s smirk like he’s got it on a string, and Jacob silently congratulates himself.

“I feel safer already.”

* * *

  
Jacob feels like he’s swimming through the Thames with the amount of bodies floating in here.

The station is packed to the rafters and, in hindsight, he should have foreseen it, with most of the hardworking people of London finishing their shifts around this time on a typical Wednesday, such as today.

Jacob’s living up to that bodyguard title as he forces a line through the swarming crowd, frown set low and Teddy at his back. 

“ _Mind the grease_ —coming through.”

His mate still has a bit of a limp and honestly, looks like the breath of a mouse could knock the fella down, let alone a feral pack of Londoners vying to get home. Churning seas of London, and all that.

By the time they’re out onto the street it’s a relief, and even the smog of south London feels crisp to his lungs. 

He takes a moment to appreciate being out of the station, off the train, getting to stretch his muscles. It's his first time off Bertha since their escape, and he’s cooped up no more, no longer a bird caged and kept.

He never wants to relive that again.

Jacob straightens the brace on his arm to rest beneath his jacket and looks Teddy over, the man’s a bit thrown after wading through the horde.

“Still in one piece?”

“Shockingly, yeah.”

Ted’s wearing a snappy little olive-green jacket atop his borrowed Rook ensemble, and the colour suits him nicely. Jacob talked him into keeping the lot, had joked it could be a memento of his visit. Teddy had laughed.

“Alright Captain Cook, you may lead the way.” He motions to the cobbles of St. Thomas’ Street laid dead ahead of them, stretching north and south, ready to be traversed.

“Nothin’ so grand,” Teddy snorts, half-under his breath. Yet he takes to the road with confidence—even with a buggered ankle, the man’s muscle-memory lives in these streets. Jacob notes him silently, fond.

Even so, he’s a trifle concerned as he sticks by Ted's side, trying not to sound it. "Will you be straight back to work? Can't see Wynert letting you with that ankle." He hopes not.

“Doubt it. He may have some lock work—gets me to test safes, sometimes.”

"Oh, impressive." Good to know. "If I ever need to break into the Bank of England, I'll know who to bring along."

Teddy laughs loud and sudden, fine lines creasing up his eyes in mirth. “Christ. Imagine.”

Jacob’s already imagined Ted in plenty of differing scenarios, but never that one.

"So you lived in Southwark long? You mentioned three years, earlier." 

He’s eyeing the buildings that line the street on either side, nicer than what's usually common for the area. Must be the more affluent living closest to the station. Jacob doubts Teddy lives _this_ close—thieves tend to keep a low profile, he's learnt enough in his limited years to know that.

“Yeah, I took lodgings here when I started with Ned. Lived near the Mint, before.”

Jacob stays quiet, knows exactly what living at, or even _near_ , the Mint means: that you're so gutter-poor, you can't even afford to keep the rags on your back. 

Teddy must have been at a pretty low point in his life, but Jacob sees a bright side.

"On the up 'n up now? I know Ned doesn't exactly skimp on his wages."

“Yeah, can’t complain.” Ted tips his head, scratches his clean-shaven chin with the beginnings of a smile. “You never said. How’s a boy from Crawley wind up leader of the fastest-growin’ gang in London?”

“By ignoring my sister and going with my gut.” Jacob’s smirk turns a shade more serious. “I moved on the Clinkers in Whitechapel, converted most of their number into new recruits. They already had a small network, so I built on that.”

“An enterprisin’ fella.” Teddy’s clearly impressed. “You know, Wynert speaks well of your operation. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Jacob already knew that Ned was keen, but it’s nice to hear it from an inside source. “How could he not. I’m impressed myself.” 

Ted just snorts as they wait to cross the road, opting not to be crushed on the wheels of a passing coach in a hurry. Two small lads are shouting from the opposite corner, bedraggled as chicks fallen out of a nest.

"Can ya spare a penny, sir?"

"—or _two_ , sir! We're ever so hungry—"

"—ever _so_ hungry!"

They're filthy, and scrawny, and Jacob feels a pang of pity at the state of them, already reaching into his pockets to suss what he has spare. Hopefully something. He doesn't often wear this jacket, or these trousers.

He watches, frown growing as every single passerby ignores the boys' pleas. They’re only _kids_. The younger lad's shoulders droop alongside the empty tin in his tatty-gloved hand, gloomily nudging his pal's shoulder. 

"When I die I want you to eat me, Izzy. Don't let me go to waste."

His mate looks sad, but slightly hopeful all the same. Jacob barely suppresses a laugh at the answer. 

"When will that be?"

Walking past, he briefly hangs back, flips them a shilling each and savours their delighted little expressions before moving on, catching up with Ted.

The bloke’s slowed, enough to wait around with a knowing look, gently nudges Jacob in the arm. “You really _are_ like that with everyone, aren’t you.”

Jacob raises a brow.

“Generous.” 

And then Ted’s walking ahead, calling almost smugly over his shoulder. “Although not with my _time_. Come on, Frye. Keep up.”

Jacob scoffs at the sheer _cheek_ but picks up his pace, gains his nerve and a smirk while he’s still behind. "What's the rush? The missus will be angry you’re out with strange men?" 

Teddy laughs.

“ _Strange_ is right. But the only missus I know is me mam, and she lives in Wolverhampton.”

Jacob chuckles, inwardly heaving a sigh of relief as he falls into step beside his mate. 

Sure enough, it seems all Teddy’s signs are pointing in one rather bent direction, and it's the same way Jacob’s aiming. _Finally_. The little Evie nagging inside his head can put a sock in it, placated.

“So, big night in store for the leader of the Rooks?”

"Absolutely. Nice meat pie back on the train, a pint and put the feet up. Although I need to be extra careful on my way home. See, my bodyguard's scarpered."

“You’re likely better off. From what I hear, he’s not much for fisticuffs.”

They cross to a lower street, further from the station’s frothing swell, and Teddy’s steps fall easier. Must be close.

"Surprising."

“Shut up.”

To say they're in Southwark it's unexpectedly quiet. By now the sun's harking its last over the lowest buildings, casting this new street into shadow; there’s a lamplighter beginning their duty up the other end of the road. Behind them is the railroad line, and further still is a large green gasometer taking up the skyline. Familiarity strikes Jacob.

"Oh! That's one of my fight clubs, there." He motions towards the structure, affecting an air of mystery. " _Secret,_ _underground_ fight clubs."

“Ah. _Secret_.” Teddy tilts a sly grin, indulgent. It’s a very good look on him. “What’re your odds, then?” 

“Looking to place a bet?” Teddy doesn’t answer, just waits, and Jacob obliges, a tad smug. “They’re not bad. Two-to-three, my last.”

Ted gives him what feels like a very thorough once-over, something wicked in those eyes. “Yeah, I can see it.”

Jacob can’t say he doesn’t like it.

“This one’s mine.” Teddy motions to a tidy-looking structure across the way, five stories of even brick—at the end of the row, _and_ the nicest one on it, Jacob notes, suddenly pleased. Ted deserves a decent place to call home.

There’s an apothecary at street level, doors still open but no lamp on inside, and a woman out front sweeping up the pavement. Jacob also happily clocks a cheese and sarnie shop to its right.

“The _whole_ building?” Of course it isn’t, but he wants Ted to tell him which one it _is_.

The man doesn’t disappoint, slides him a tweaked brow that might indicate he’s well-aware of the ploy. 

“Up there,” Ted says instead, pointing to two gable windows at the very tippity top. “It’s no fancy train, mind. But it’s home.”

Craning a look above, Jacob hums, soundly impressed but quite playing up his awe: this coy ruse is too fun to pass up, seeing how far he can take it.

“Bet the view’s tops from up there.”

Ted slants him a look he can _feel_ , though his tone is deceptively light.

“You should, come up and take a look.”

He can take it all the way, apparently. 

Anticipation winds tightly in the base of Jacob’s belly when he turns to _stare_ at Ted: at his lips, the slight gape of his collar, that tidy waist. Those trim hips just begging to be held, all framed by the open invitation _up to Teddy's room._

“I’d like that.”

Ted’s eyes widen, _just_ enough, that Jacob is almost _certain_ his intentions are the same; you know, without blowing the gaff and getting in trouble. _That means prison, Jacob_ , reminds the Evie in his head. He ignores her.

“ _Oi_! _Mister_ Neill!”

A sudden shout stalls his racing thoughts and heartbeat, while Teddy winces. Following his mate’s dismayed gaze across the way, Jacob lands on the woman previously sweeping up the side: now brandishing her broom like a pitchfork, and waving it their way over the road. 

“You owe me _two weeks’_ _rent_!”

“Oh, _Christ_.”

The man beside him looks about as pleased as Jacob is to be interrupted—which is to say, not one blooming bit. As they cross over he finds himself asking the obvious, whispering to Ted under his breath.

“ _Landlady, I presume_?”

Teddy’s nod is tired when the brassed-off woman starts again.

“I was gonna have Eddie put your stuff in the dustheap!”

“Missus Weaver, my sincerest apologies. I've been—in hospital. I was jumped coming home from the station. Near a fortnight ago.”

“Oh, goodness!”

Teddy pulls an _excellent_ lie right out of thin air, but Jacob’s not blind to the pleading look that follows. And not to go bragging, but if anyone's a master of porkies on the fly, it’s Jacob Frye.

“It’s certainly true, madam. Jacob Frye, a pleasure.” He obligingly clasps her offered hand with his left, making sure she can see his right still bandaged in thin dressing, and held in a sling. 

“I was there, and they unfortunately got the better of us both. Theodore here in fact saved me from a couple of the cheeky blighters himself. A true hero, like.”

Jacob offers her a cordial smile, one she enthusiastically returns: he’s well aware he still has his fading black eye on show, a few cuts to his face to hope sell the story further.

“Well, ah. Yes.” Ted’s flustered by the praise, Jacob can tell. It’s infinitely charming. “I’ll bring your rent, then. Two weeks, was it?”

“Yes, dear. No rush though. I’m, I’m glad you’ve recovered. _And you_ , Mister Frye.” 

Her eyes linger on him a little longer than he feels may be necessary, but it seems Ted is out of the frying pan and away from the fire, so that's all that matters.

“Mum!” Seems there’s not a moment’s peace here as a young lad comes tearing out the store, nearly missing one of the steps and mildly avoids cracking open his skull on the pavement. “—Can we keep this chair?!” 

Before she even answers the boy looks at both him and Ted, eyebrows soaring when he spots the latter. “Mister Neill. I-I didn’t know you were back. We thought you split for good.”

“I’m back,” Teddy says, sounding pained. “And that’s my chair.”

“ _Eddie_ , you can help Mister Neill return his belongings to his room.” She turns to Ted then, looking slightly more sincere, and _rather_ more embarrassed. “We only started a few hours ago, and Eddie’s a slow worker. Don’t worry, love.”

Jacob can see distress clear on Teddy’s face and he’s not fond, but with the landlady and her son breathing down their necks, there’s nothing to be done. Seems their trip upstairs to _see the view_ will just have to wait, and Ted’s puckered brow says much the same. 

“ _Mum_? What about the desk?” 

Missus Weaver rolls her eyes heavenwards, but delivers them a polite smile before following her son inside. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“ _Christ_ ,” Ted mutters again, looking absolutely mortified by the time they’re left alone on the pavement. 

Poor Teddy.

Jacob’s mourning the loss almost as much as he is, but his turnaround’s always going to be quicker. Though well-aware they might still be in earshot of a nosey landlady or two, he decides to tread lightly. 

“What are you doing Monday? Fancy a pint?” 

“God, yes.”

Teddy sounds relieved, and _eager_ , ready to bite Jacob’s arm off. He smiles a bit mischievously, trying to not look _too_ eager himself. “Lamb and Flag? Rose Street, Covent Garden. Noon.” He swipes a finger down the lapel on Ted’s Rook jacket. “Hope you’ve got nicer threads than this tat—”

Ted catches his wrist before it can leave, gaze trained on Jacob’s fingers, his white-scarred knuckles. Voice low, staring at him like a promise. 

“Wait and see.” 

The moment slips past and Ted turns him loose, but Jacob can’t bring himself to feel sorry—he’s too busy watching the man’s parted lips, as they slide from wry smirk to full-blown grin. Looking like all the world’s his oyster, like maybe he’s found a pearl.

Teddy seems… _happy_. And it’s his best look yet.

“Take care gettin’ back to your train. Since you’re out of a bodyguard, now.”

Jacob can snark back just as well, shrugging. “It’s alright. He was only ever there for the free ride.”

"Cheeky fecker."

Teddy turns away then, heads for the shop—and goddamn, those trousers fit him right fucking _well_. Jacob can't stop himself calling out, one last time.

"See you Monday."

“Mm. G’night, Frye.”

Jacob’s left with a look he won't forget in a hurry, watching his bloke disappear into the rear of the store. No doubt there's a stairwell back there, leading up to Teddy’s lodgings… lodgings he _almost_ got to see for himself.

He sighs.

Tripped at the finish line.

He lingers sorrowfully at the bottom of the steps, quickly pasting on a cheerful smile as Missus Weaver appears at the shop doorway, sculpted brows raising indulgently with a swish of her skirts. 

"Mister Frye. Are you to depart?"

Hm. Perhaps he can try something here.

“Missus Weaver, unfortunately so. I um, have a favour to ask, actually." She nods a bit too quickly, coyly shoving a fallen tendril of deep auburn behind her ear. "I didn’t want to say so in front of Theodore, but he lost a _lot_ of money, when he was attacked. I'd like to tide him over, till he gets back on his feet."

"Oh, that's… very generous of you, Mister Frye. How _gallant_."

He only tweaks his smile in response, reluctant to fan these flames any further. "Are you willing, a pound?" And he offers over the single note from his pocket, making the handover as discreet as he can on the steps of an open doorway.

"Most _certainly_."

She tucks the note away in a small purse from her pocket, and Jacob reminds himself to mention it to Ted, so she doesn't get any ideas and rip him off. 

However, it isn’t _Teddy_ that Jacob’s currently concerned for. 

“You know, Mister Frye. You look just like my husband did, in his _blossoming_ adolescence.”

Jacob hears alarm bells going off in the back of his head: now it's _definitely_ time to depart. “Heh, lucky man, to have found you, Missus Weaver.”

She drops her voice and softens her tone, taking a step down and sidling closer to him. “You know, _he’s passed_.”

His grin is forced far too wide in pleasantry, his cheeks are beginning to hurt. “My sympathies, madam—however I really _must_ be going now. Back to the wife and our eight kids for supper.”

"How _virile_."

Jacob pales as he turns away for a swift exit, vowing never to use anything other than the roof on future visits to Teddy’s.

Should there be any, that is.

But Jacob surely hopes so—after all, he would _love_ to see that view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Sod's Law** : the British version of Murphy's Law in the US. 'If something can go wrong, it will.'
> 
>  **Took the egg** : Victorian slang meaning to win
> 
>  **Seven Bells Pub** : originally supposed to be the base for The Rooks in-game, was never implemented for some reason
> 
>  **Shirty** : angry, lairy
> 
>  **Barkers & long irons**: Victorian slang for firearms
> 
>  **Naff** : lame, rubbish, uncool
> 
>  **Worthington Transport** : a little in-joke by Ned. His mentor is one Adam Worth, an American criminal mastermind who recruited Ned to set up a crime syndicate in London. He was a real dude and apparently the inspiration for Sherlock Holmes' nemesis, James Moriarty, which gives you an idea of how bad he was. We reasoned that Ned would need a legitimate “front” for his less-legitimate dealings, and what’s more inconspicuous than a humble moving company? (They specialise in “hauling parcels and transporting highest-quality goods.” Nothing to see here!)
> 
>  **Gormless** : stupid, dull, clumsy
> 
>  **Josser** : Victorian slang for a foolish-looking man
> 
>  **Regent Street** : was established as 'the centre of fashion' in London during the 19th century, and is still popular today
> 
>  **Mind the grease** : Victorian slang for 'let me pass'
> 
>  **The Mint** : a slum located in Southwark known as being for the poorest of the poor. It was notorious for having a lower standard of living than anywhere else in London, which, at the time, would take quite some effort
> 
>  **Beggar Boys** : these two lads are in the game! The conversation Jacob hears is inspired by their actual words to one another 
> 
> **Wolverhampton** : after the Irish Potato Famine (1845-1849; see chapter 6 notes), Wolverhampton became a popular place for Irish immigrants to settle 
> 
> **Lamplighters** : before electricity these guys would go around and light every individual lamp post one by one, and snuff them out in the morning one by one. There are still 1500 gas lamps operating in London today!
> 
>  **Teddy's flat** : this is an actual place you can visit in-game! Location on Map [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/ujtq0o5n0a3lutv/Teddy%27s_Flat_Map.png?dl=0) Street View [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/zufu9vg7lcdumqn/Teddy%27s_Flat_Outside.png?dl=0)
> 
>  **''That means prison, Jacob''** : yes, the-Evie-in-Jacob's-head, you are unfortunately correct. In the UK homosexuality was punishable by death up until 1861, but remained illegal and punishable by imprisonment after that. Homosexual acts were only fully decriminalised (meaning treated the same as heterosexual acts in the eyes of the law) in the UK, on May 1st 2004. 143 years later 
> 
> **Porkies** : lies, lying, telling tall tales 
> 
> **Victorian handshakes** : back then, handshakes could only be initiated by the lady. So good boy, Jakey, saved yourself a slap there
> 
>  **Tat** : of rubbish quality, stuff that's not worth anything, is 'tatty'


	10. interlude: sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief sexual content warning for this chapter

1852, Crawley

_4 years old_

Jacob’s earliest memory is of sunlight, and laughter, and water up his nose. Evie’s chubby hand gripping his own, while Nannan leads them to the bank of Stony Brook, and his bare feet scrape in the tall grass. Of tugging his woolly shirt up over his head, and getting stuck, and needing help to unravel himself at the edge of the water, where pebbles lay like little treasures.

“I’m going to teach you how to swim,” Nannan says, and Evie squeals when cold water seeps around their naked ankles. Jacob strips off his pants and waits for his sister to splash a path ahead, following carefully in her watery footsteps.

They wade waist-deep, and lie on their backs, let the current float beneath them. Nannan is there beside them, air ballooning her skirts like blowing up his new pig’s bladder, and Jacob laughs at the sight.

The sky is blue, and clear. A blackbird flies overhead.

“I wonder how it feels to be a bird,” Evie sighs, and Jacob doesn’t know. 

He would love to be one.

“You’re a fish,” he grins instead, turning his head to look at her floating face. “A very pink fish, with ugly fins.”

Evie spits water at him then, and their play turns to tussling soon enough. Splashing and spitting until they’re pried apart, and Nannan shows them how to move their arms, tread water with their legs. She murmurs guidance and approval in her lovely native Welsh; to Jacob, she always sounds like a lullaby. 

The water ebbs beneath his limbs, sun kissing at his cheeks. Jacob grows warm and lazy, and reaches out for his sister’s hand.

“Love you, Evie,” he says, knowing she’s already forgiven his earlier slight when her fingers curl in his. “My favourite sister.”

“Your _only_ sister,” she corrects, but her eyes are closed and happy, freckles darkening on her cheeks. “Love you too.”

A robin sings from somewhere in the woods.

Jacob turns his face up to the light, and smiles into the sky.

* * *

1859, Brighton

_11 years old_

Finally hitting wet sand beneath the dry, Jacob grins. 

He gleefully scoops up clumps of it, making little dark hills on either side of himself, planning on building a castle to hide from marauding pirates. 

He’s had to do _something_ to while away the _days_ , the _years_ he’s been sat, waiting for Evie to put on her new bathing gown so they can finally go in the water. 

Patting the top of a pile flat, he pokes his finger in the smooth surface, then bashes it down with a fist, showering his leg with damp soggy clumps. 

He hears faint laughter growing louder and looks around, spots a group of boys about his age. They’re kicking a football to an open space on the beach, beginning to pass it between them. 

Looks like fun.

“ _Oi_! So what do you think?” 

Tearing his eyes away from the group, he shoots a glance over his shoulder to see Evie striding up behind, and Jacob gawps. Her face looks like she swallowed a worm but is trying to hide it.

“ _Eugh_ , Evie!”

“ _Eugh_ yourself,” she snaps, shaking creases out of her new bathing gown and wiggling her toes in the sand. It’s hideous: maroon and white, with matching bloomers all the way down to her ankles. Her getup has more frills on it than their nan’s curtains and doily collection combined. Jacob thinks it looks cursed, or haunted.

Evie juts her nose in the air, attempting to smile. “It’s the latest thing.”

“It’s awful, is what it is.”

“Well I can’t very well wear what _you_ are.”

Jacob rudely sticks out his tongue and gives her a two-fingered salute, and Evie returns the favour before she’s called over by Father. Seems her ghastly bathing gown isn’t done up properly. 

Looking back to the group of boys, Jacob pushes to his feet, decided. Wiping off the sand clinging to his bum and thighs, he tugs his drawers so they aren’t riding up, and heads off in their direction.

“Jacob! Get back here!”

Stopping in his tracks he returns a look over his shoulder, pleading with his dad and pointing at the group enjoying themselves without him. “But I want to play football—”

“ _No_. You will play with your sister, not other boys.”

“—but she can play too when she’s ready.”

“I said _no_! Now sit down and do as you’re told, for once.”

He wants to argue but knows it’ll be of no use, trudging back to the spot of before, kicking through one of his wet sand clumps. He throws himself back down and pouts, making do with only _watching_ the others have fun. 

His dad never lets him have any. It’s stupid. 

Jacob sits peering at them enviously, his glower fading as time goes on. 

Keeps looking at one boy especially, long limbs and he’s quick with the ball—skinny, much skinnier than Jacob is anyway, and he’s nearly a head taller than all the others there. He also keeps making them laugh. 

He’s wearing a dark sleeveless vest and drawers similar to his own, blue and white stripes instead of green and white. Other boys have no vest at all, but Jacob doesn’t care.

He's never thought to call a boy pretty before, but this one is. He's even prettier than some girls, Jacob thinks softly to himself. 

He wonders if kissing a boy is like kissing a girl. He’s only ever kissed one person who isn’t family; Polly Harper from down by the duck pond, and _she_ kissed _him_ —he wasn’t that bothered, even though she was pretty and liked him.

Not as pretty as this boy.

He doesn’t realise what his new interest has done, but there’s a _tug_ in his belly and a lump grows in his drawers. Jacob hides it with his hands desperately, confused and embarrassed.

...this has happened before, but only at home, and usually when he wakes up. Jacob shrinks into himself, feeling hot and wrong all over. The thought that someone might see makes him squirm.

He was only thinking about the football boy and how he’d like to be friends, how kissing him would feel compared to a girl.

 _Oh_.

Then he hears Evie shout.

“Jacob! Let’s _go_!”

He shakes his head quickly, tucking his legs up against his body and wrapping his arms around them, tight. 

“No… no, I don’t want to anymore.”

“Hmph. I’m not getting trussed up in this flimflam for me not to go in the water. Come on!”

Jacob shakes his head again, hiding his cheeks behind his knees to keep the hot blush secret. His body feels on fire. Evie sees none of this and stomps on over, grabbing his arm to pull him up. Jacob fights it and wails.

“ _Evie_! _Let go_! _No_!”

“ _Jacob_! _I. Want. To. Go. In. The. Water_!”

“Jacob. Go with your sister.”

At Father’s intervention Evie drops his wrist, leaving nail marks behind. She glares down at him with hands on her hips. Jacob tucks himself miserably back into a ball.

"I don't want to."

He hears Father’s deep, tired sigh from here. _Annoyed_. Jacob screws his eyes shut, feeling even worse for it. He can’t cry, he won’t.

“Jacob, why do you have to ruin this for me?” Evie asks, looking down on him with a tilted head, frown filled with disappointment. It makes him hurt.

“You’re not fat. I was only teasing.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her, pleadingly—then drops his eyes to the floor, wet with tears. He hears Father tell her to go to the water without him.

Miffed, Evie kicks a spray of sand over him and tramps off towards the surf, her many frills and dark maroon skirt swishing angrily behind her. 

Jacob swallows the snot in his throat.

He feels dirty, and scared. Alone. 

Like everyone knows what he’s done.   
  


* * *

  
“ _Evie_?”

“Yes?”

“Are you awake?”

“Clearly I am, Jacob, otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

He bites his lip. “Can I ask you something?”

She sighs. “If it’s about the jellyfish sting again, then _yes_ , it still hurts, and _no_ , you cannot poke it.”

“You know how, you like boys, and I like girls?” She _mhmms_ an affirmative. Jacob’s chest _thuds_. “I think I like boys too.”

They lay staring up at the ceiling in darkness, in two small unfamiliar beds two feet apart, for the longest time anyone has ever gone without talking.

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Am not.” 

He sighs out through his nose, eyes shut, and explains exactly what happened to him on the beach when he wouldn’t go into the water with her. Evie’s quiet the whole time. 

He then hears covers shifting, and suddenly his own are being tugged at, a dip in his mattress, and Evie’s climbing under the sheets with him. Her legs brushing, then tangling with his.

“Jacob, _you can’t_. People don’t like that.”

He ducks under too, to join in with her loud whispering.

“I _know_.” 

He can just make out her big eyes in the dark.

“I’m scared, Evie. What should I do?”

He knows it’s not the done thing. That he should like girls, and he _does_ —but he felt the same way about that boy today as he did Mary’s daughter at the greengrocer’s two weeks ago. She was pretty when she smiled at him, made his hands sweaty and his tongue feel big. 

“I don’t know, I’m thinking.”

Evie will know, she always does. But Jacob nibbles his lip, waiting for her in the quiet. He’s bad at waiting. 

“What if someone wants to take me away?”

When Evie reaches up and lays her hand over Jacob’s mouth, her touch is careful. “I won’t let that happen. Now _shhh_.”

He feels safe with her here, and he knows Evie sticks to her word like frogspawn to other frogspawn. 

Jacob curls closer to her, laying a hand over her side. She’s so warm. He thinks he’ll just close his eyes for a little while, until she thinks of a plan.

She always has good plans.  
  


* * *

1863, Crawley

_15 years old_

It’s been a while since he was home, a day and a half at least.

Jacob hops through the bedroom window and lands crouched on the floor. Pleased when not a single board creaks, no ruffle of curtains sound.

It’s dark in their shared room. The small oil-burner on Evie’s nightstand is lit low, but she isn’t here. 

He’ll have to be quick. She’ll be back soon, she won’t leave it burning without being in the same room for long. She’s like that.

Jacob steps on over to his bed, to his chest of drawers beside and rifles through, accidentally knocking over his violin leant at the side.

The instrument makes a sad, hollow thud as it hits the floor. 

Jacob stares at it. 

He’s had the thing for years, was his last birthday present from his nan before she passed. He doesn’t have many possessions, and even fewer he actually cares about, but this is one of them.

Picking it up carefully, he sets it on his bed along with the bow. The latter needs rehairing, been a couple of years since he’s used it. Since he’s even had the want to. 

He’s aware the slight noise may have alerted Evie, so gets back to the open drawer, rummaging through his sparse shirt collection. Pulling out a clean one, minimal stains and he only patched it up the other day. This will do.

He tugs off his soiled top and drops it on the floor, blood and dirt rubbed in from his latest spree through an Ifield foundry. Liberated a few workers, mostly young kids, and sent the owner a message he won’t forget in a hurry. 

It felt good to be in control. 

Slipping on his clean shirt, he swipes his hair back, spying something poking out from under his bed sheets. 

He can guess what it is: a newspaper, hidden there by Evie. She reads through Father’s many rags and occasionally comes across certain articles she thinks Jacob needs to see. They’re never good, and he knows she means well but, it’s getting more and more irksome.

Jacob reaches for it, already knowing what it’s going to say. Reads it under his breath using the moonlight to see.

“Disgraced. Local mill owner Alexander Farden… stripped of property… fined and awaiting trial… charged with attempting to commit sodomy.”

He huffs. Jacob _wishes_ he had an attempt at committing sodomy. 

He continues reading.

“...William… also charged with attempting to commit… fined _, and ordered to Greendale Workhouse_. Bugger.”

He skims over the rest of the article, seeing nothing related, just mentions of murderers, thieves, and gun-wielding lunatics being granted bail.

So that’s where the world thinks he belongs. Lumped in with the likes of murderers and thieves. 

Only _they’re_ the ones allowed bail.

Where _does_ Evie get off, saying he’s the same as them? 

He will be one day, he thinks proudly, whenever Father finally lets him at his first blooding. He could do it right now, tonight, another year or so won’t make a difference. Jacob’s trained long enough, he wants to get out there and do what he was born to do.

He glares down at the print still in hand, reading the article over once more before he throws the paper on the floor, half kicks it under the bed and heads towards the window.

He _knows_ he’s not an abhorrence for finding men attractive. It’s everyone else who’s wrong. 

Trying to get him to fall in line. Follow everyone else’s lead. _Follow the rules_. Rules put down by men in power who reached their position by ill-gotten gains, and trampling over other hard-working people. Men who haven’t earnt a goddamn thing in their lives. 

They’re the true monsters. Not men like him.

He hears footsteps from the hallway behind, sees a shadow nearing the open bedroom doorway. He slips out the window and drops the short distance to the ground, landing silently in the grass on all fours. 

He stays crouched, listening for Evie to pick up that he was there. A minute goes by, Jacob waits. 

Nothing. 

Satisfied, he takes off down the garden, vaulting the fence and then he’s gone, on a mission all his own.

Free.  
  


* * *

1865, Three Bridges

_17 years old_

Jacob’s been watching him for hours. 

The pub is crowded, and alright he’s had a few (more than, truly), but he can’t stop watching the bloke at the bar. The long, thin hands that keep flitting to his pint, sliding up to dash a stray lock of coal-black hair from his pale grey eyes—he’s beautiful, in a knifepoint sort of way.

Jacob would gladly throw himself upon that blade.

“Your go, mate.”

Can’t be much older, maybe nineteen. He’s with a lass, anyway. Pretty and blonde, and nothing like Jacob. Foolish to think the fella would even glance his way.

“Right, sorry.”

Jacob lays down another card without looking, this game a loss already. Steals another look, and nearly chokes on his ale because the bloke’s sharp gaze is trained on _him_.

Panic skitters down his throat, but the man just smirks and turns away, and Jacob feels his cheeks grow hot. 

The game goes on. He barely hears it.

When he finally scrapes up the courage to look again, the seat at the bar is empty—Jacob hasn’t time to mourn the loss when a fresh pint thumps beside his elbow, and his bloke from the bar is _here_.

“Best of luck, lads,” he purrs, and drops low to breathe past Jacob’s ear. “ _I’ll be in the alley. Five minutes_.”

Oh. _Fuck_.

Jacob watches him saunter away, uncaring that his eyes are wide and his face is red. Blame it on the ale, if anyone asks—but they don’t, and he waits as long as he can stand.

Surely not long enough, but his throat feels swollen shut by the time he throws down his losing hand. 

“I fold.”

And then he’s quaffing the mug for liquid courage, stumbling up from his seat, and praying the rest of the pub is too soused to see that his prick’s gone hard as stone.

The alley is dark, and clustered by barrels, and for one terrifying moment, Jacob thinks he’s been played—but then his fella steps out of a shadow, face lean and hungry as the night.

“There you are.”

They exchange spare nods and Jacob’s shaking so hard, he barely hears the bloke ask him for a suck—but he’s already falling, patched knees sinking into wet earth. Takes out the guy’s prick and feels his way down its length, heart pounding in his ears when he parts his lips.

It’s huge, and hot, and almost— _too much_ —when the guy grabs his head and begins to move.

 _This is happening_ , Jacob thinks hysterically, on his knees in an alley, drooling around a stranger’s cock. This is real, and I wanted this, and now it’s mine. 

“Fuck, _fuck_ mate—”

“ _Jacob_ ,” he tries to say around the cock in his mouth, but the bloke only tugs his hair and fucks down his throat, and Jacob’s eyes burn as he chokes.

 _I want this_ , he tells himself fiercely, working his jaw, and ignoring the need of his own prick, for now.

The bloke shudders and stills, and then spends in his mouth without warning—Jacob jerks back gasping, spitting bitter seed all over the ground. Wipes his chin. Tucks the man’s limp prick back into his fly.

“Cheers, mate,” the fella slurs, patting those long hands through Jacob’s wild hair. “Better than m’girl.”

It’s hollow praise, but praise nonetheless—and Jacob’s still hard, still anticipating at least a helping hand for his trouble when the bloke steps away, walks back towards the pub. 

Apparently, he’s not even worth that.

Thunder rumbles, in the distance. Jacob pushes unsteadily to his feet, suddenly cold.

It begins to rain.  
  


* * *

  
“What time do you call this?”

Jacob halts with an irritated sigh, caught out in the open foyer. Head hung between his shoulders and rain dripping from his hair. It gets soaked up on the carpet.

His father’s presence looms over him from the doorway to the kitchen, firelight flickering behind in the hearth. Ethan Frye casts a long shadow, makes Jacob feel angry and small. Hateful.

He’s clearly waited for him to return home. 

Jacob mutters, low. “Can’t you ever leave me alone.”

“You come home _this_ late an hour, and expect no consequences? It’s gone midnight. How many times do I have to explain—”

He clenches his fists and shuts his eyes as Father rails off the usual bullshit vitriol, knuckles turned white at his sides. By the time it’s stopped Jacob takes the tally, realises he was listening to exactly _none_ of it, only waiting for it to end. He pastes on a sham of a smile, turning to sneer at his dearest dad.

“Are you finished?”

“I’ll never be finished with you. Nothing ever _gets_ finished.”

“Oh, a dagger to my heart, Father. Please _stop_.”

“I’ve turned blue in the face repeating myself to you—”

“ _Oh, please_ —”

“—if you’re still out after nine, then don’t bother coming home!”

Jacob rounds on him, bitter and sick to his teeth of this same routine. He’s as tall as Ethan now, and almost as broad, knows in a few years he’ll be bigger. Wishes he was now.

“Do you even know where I was? Or what I was doing?”

Part of him wants to tell the truth: tell Father he was behind the White Hart, on his knees in the dirt, gagging around a stranger’s thick cock. That _he loved it_. 

Survival stays that particular want, but Jacob’s not through. Raises his chin instead, feeling proud of himself.

“No. Because you _don’t give a fuck_.”

“No Jacob, because you _never talk to me_ —you never say a word—”

“ _Because you don’t listen to me_!”

Jacob’s cry seems to quieten the entire house: only a far-off rumble of thunder sounds with a resounding _boom_ behind him. He still stands in the open doorway, rain lashing down outside.

“ _You_ only ever address me to tell me I’ve done wrong. So why bother? You have Evie, she does everything right. Why do you need me.”

“Sometimes, I ask myself that.”

For the briefest moment Jacob’s armour falls away, and he’s eight years old again: being told he’s _not enough_ by the man he looks up to more than anyone. 

He’s always known somehow, Ethan blames him for what happened on the day of their birth. Pure, front and centre, they had Evie. And then Jacob came along, four minutes later, and ruined his father's life.

Little slip-ups throughout the years, like this one now, have built him a pretty solid foundation for that feeling. Doesn’t look like it’s crumbling anytime soon.

Knowing the truth doesn’t hurt any less.

It’s a heavy blow and Jacob hardens his gaze, suppressing deep hurt behind a resentful glare, nostrils flaring.

“Then I’ll do us _both_ a courtesy.”

He leaves. Reaches for the door handle and slams it shut behind him, feeling the entire wall shake before he lets go. Storming back down the garden path he squints, blinks through the rain hitting him hard in the face as the wind picks up, whips around him like a cloak. 

Jacob doesn’t know why he expects to hear his name called out, in apology or otherwise. 

For all his stupid, misguided optimism, he gets nothing.  
  


* * *

1867, Crawley

_19 years old_

He can hear her stilted sobs growing louder as he walks steadily up the hallway to her room.

Poor Evie. 

Stopping just short of the doorway, Jacob waits, rests his head against the wall. Listening to her sorrowful hitches and sniffs, he’s wondering if this is even a good idea. 

He decides that of course it is, and steps just one foot further, poking his head round the doorjamb. Doesn’t take much to conjure a sympathetic smile, he's missed her.

"Knock, knock." 

She looks up immediately, startled eyes red and watery.

"Jacob. I didn’t, didn't know you were here."

"You know me, master of stealth."

That garners a weak smile but Evie loses his gaze quickly. She does move over a bit on the bed though, which he takes as permission to enter. 

Quiet until he settles beside her on the mattress, he plucks out his embroidered hanky from an inside pocket, holding it for her to take.

"I'm sorry, Evie."

She barely shakes her head, taking the handkerchief and dabbing her eyes.

"You're not the tosser I've wasted three months of my life on, shagging some tart the next village over." 

"How would you know. Maybe I have a strumpet or two myself?"

She scoffs, nose pink. "If anyone, _you'd_ be the strumpet."

"On behalf of all strumpets everywhere, I take offence to that."

That gains him a slightly stronger smile this time, which Jacob kindly returns. 

Carefully inching closer till their thighs touch, he places a gentle hand round her shoulders. Sure enough, Evie leans into his bigger frame, tucking her wet face at his neck, suddenly wracked with sobs.

After a short while she stops shaking. Jacob’s been holding her close the entire time, missing this, missing _her_ more than he thought he ever could a person who wasn't his mother.

"Do you need me to feed him his teeth?"

She sniffs, quietens, and for a while Jacob thinks she's not going to say anything at all.

"I'd like that."

He smiles, squeezing her tighter.

"Consider it as good as done."  
  


* * *

  
He bounds through the hallway.

Ethan Frye's words are daggers at his back, voice echoing up the stairs behind as Jacob takes them three at a time. 

At the top he huffs and straightens his coat. Damn thing has a rip in the elbow now, and at the arse, he’ll have to patch them later. 

Moving along the corridor, he’s very pleased to hear... nothing. No melancholy sorrow floating through like there was yesterday. Good.

Rounding on Evie’s door Jacob smiles seeing her at the desk, no doubt scrawling out her grievances in one of the many dull notebooks she keeps. But if that’s how she gets out her frustrations, Jacob can’t fault her for it.

As if he’d called her name, Evie turns around and spots him lingering in the doorway, her level frown going softer. He thinks he spies a little smile hidden in there too.

“It is done.” 

Jacob grins, stepping into the room with arms spread, where he takes a shallow bow. 

“He’s gonna have to get his new bird to chew his food for him for the foreseeable future.”

“Please, never say that again. The image is vile.”

“It’s what I excel at.”

She smirks, and he can see genuine gratitude veiled behind that intrepid visage he’s always held in such high esteem. 

Secretly. Secret esteem. She can’t ever know he _likes_ her, for God’s sake.

“More importantly, do _you_ still have all of _your_ teeth?”

“The fact you think there’s the possibility of me _not_ having all my teeth cuts me to the quick, dear sister.”

She seems satisfied with that, then stands and walks straight past him out the door. 

Jacob is a little flummoxed, stood there in the middle of Evie’s room, stuck out like a sore thumb. He was expecting a slap on the shoulder at the least, a grateful embrace at the most. 

He sighs, looks around. It smells like lemon in here: bright and airy, a place you’d want to take a nap. _And_ he can see she has a freshly-brewed tea, with biscuits, sat on her desk. 

Moseying on over he plucks one from the plate and crunches through it, crumbs get sprayed on her desk but he quickly wipes them off onto the floor.

She’s back almost at once, ordering him to sit on her bed and not nick any more of her bloody biscuits, thank you. He complies.

Evie perches right next to him in a mirror of their time yesterday, and gently takes a hold of his chin with one hand. Starts daubing ointment on a thick cut over his eye. It stings and he winces.

“Stay still.”

While she cleans his wound Jacob’s watching her, but she isn’t looking at him. “You should see the other guy.”

“I most certainly do not want to.” In what he thinks must be a rare moment of weakness, she locks eyes with him and they soften. 

It’s one of his favourite things. 

“Thank you. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

Jacob shrugs but stops halfway, not wanting to jostle her overmuch and be told off again. “He pulled out a knife and I only had my fists, _so_ …”

“—you brought fists to a knife fight.”

“ _He_ brought a knife to a fist fight. And two other blokes were there.” He declines to mention that all three of them were taller than him, and one even beefier. It was a bit of a struggle, but he won in the end. Busted knuckles and all.

“Well, it won’t be needed again. I’ve sworn off men.”

Jacob laughs and Evie scowls.

“Can I get in on that?”

“I mean it. They’re nothing but trouble, and a waste of—a _waste of time,_ and effort, and cause nothing but heartbreak.”

“—present company excluded.”

“I’m serious, Jacob.”

“Sure you are.”

She’s trying not to smile, not to laugh, and she’s pretty good at fighting it, mostly, but Jacob can still tell.

He teases her the rest of his visit, and she presses the ointment-soaked cotton a _little harder_ into his other cuts and scrapes, just once each, for good measure.  
  


* * *

1868, London

_Present Day_

It’s late in the day, and thankfully Jacob’s managed to get most of that bloody paperwork done and dusted. 

He’s retired to a private cabin, needing it after that final draining examination with the doctor. 

His hand is healing nicely, apparently: no infections in any of his wounds, and he’s recovering faster than the doc had expected. No surprise there, he and Evie always have. Comes from being of good Welsh stock, their nan always said, blessed with hardy constitutions. Nothing unusual in that.

Stitches are to be removed in two weeks’ time from his forearm, and three weeks from the wound left behind by his lack of fingers. 

Once the sutures are out, and so long as he refrains from straining, doc said he should be back to light, normal use in two to three weeks’ time _after_ that.

Light, normal use. 

_Normal_. 

Like that’s a thing anymore.

Jacob’s pulled out a new pair of gloves to land his mind on something else, complete a useful task, slowly beginning to sew up the two smallest fingers on the right-hand glove.

Won't even be able to use them for ages, until he's down to wearing the barest of bandages, that is. In the meantime it's going to be thick gauze, trying not to knock the wound, wrapping it in leather strips if he’s out.

Probably not his brightest idea to work on a _glove_ if he doesn’t want to be contemplating his hand. 

The most uplifting experience, it is not.

Barely an inch through the first finger, he hears a _click_ and creak of hinges, he looks up to see Evie hanging on the door, poking her head inside the small dark room. 

“Jacob?”

He quickly wipes his eyes.

“Yes?”

She enters without an invitation, _typical_ , wearing a subdued smile he rarely sees these days.

“I came to see how you were. What did the physician say?”

 _This_ again.

Jacob sighs, it’s already been rattling around his head the past half-hour. “That I’m fully healed, _and_ I can pick up where I left off with my promising juggling career.”

She drops her smile and raises a brow. Jacob’s true answer is cheerless.

“That there’s no infection. Stitches come out in three weeks. Might take me at least two more to fully use my hand again.”

Evie appears better pleased with that answer, as her softer smile returns. 

“How can you even _see_ in here.” 

It’s not a question. She strides to the window and swipes back the small curtain, Jacob squints when the light hits his face.

“What’s this?” Coming to sit beside him on the bed, she nudges the glove in his hand.

He suppresses another sigh. "The doc suggested I sew them closed so they don't, so they're _not_... they don't get caught."

She ponders that, or perhaps just pities him; either way she’s quiet, and the pause between them is stilted, awkward.

"That's a good idea. Need a ha— _help_? Need some _help_?"

He smirks at her slip. "From _you_? No thanks. Don't want another botched skirt job."

"I was _fifteen_ and I loved that skirt!"

Jacob takes her fluster as a little victory, and chuckles.

"How was I to know it was Mother’s?” It’s not a question that requires an answer, so he doesn’t give one. Evie ends up answering herself, quiet. “In retrospect, I should have."

"I'd never seen him so angry with you."

She nods, staring past him out the window. There’s a line of hurt between her brows. "It was frightening."

"Hm." Jacob agrees, having dealt with that ire himself too many times to count. The little cabin grows quiet, once more. Sighing down at the glove in hand, he pushes through the next few stitches without saying a word.

"Jacob. You didn't have to take the fall for me."

Evie’s words mean little; of course he did. Father was usually pissed off with him for doing something, why would another disappointment make any difference?

He puts on a wistful smile.

"Why ruin two childhoods instead of just the one?"

He doesn’t glance over to see her expression, keeps on with the glove. 

After a moment Jacob forgets she’s there, absorbed in his task, _why_ he’s having to do it. Wonders sadly if he can even continue on as an Assassin, in this state. It’s not like his fingers are going to grow back, return to before, or that he’ll have full control ever again.

But no, that’s exactly what they’d want. For doubt to set in. It’s even what Father would say: _The smallest hardship Jacob, and you give up_. 

He’s not giving up. 

Jacob’s determined. If anything, this is going to make him try harder, go further, be _better_. 

“This won’t stop me.”

He hears Evie take in a steadying sigh, but it’s the certainty in her voice that means more to him than everything else. “I know. I’m here, if you need anything.”

He knows she means the words, otherwise she wouldn’t say them. Jacob offers a gentle smile, grateful. “Thanks.”

“You _know_ , you’re in good company. With your hand.”

Jacob finds himself raising a skeptical brow, waiting for whatever justification she’s got in her pocket.

“ _Altaïr_ was missing his ring finger. As were many initiates around his time, in their commitment to the creed.”

Evie looks pleased, but her words mean nothing to him. Jacob stares at her, blankly. 

“Who?” 

She stares right back. He’s well aware she thinks him a nickey for not knowing all this lore guff.

“ _A legendary master Assassin_. He’s credited with creating the worldwide Brotherhood of Assassins? Without him there wouldn’t _be_ one.”

Ah. Well that’s _something_ , he supposes.

“I should write him a letter for being _such_ an inspiration.” He feels himself looking far less than enthused, and cuts her some slack, feigning mild interest. “What happened to him?”

Evie falls oddly silent, instead of following up with her familiar historic prattle—Jacob turns to see if she heard, and finds her frowning.

“Evie...?”

She worries her lip between her teeth. “Ah. He locked himself in an underground vault to secure a Piece of Eden, and. _Died_. Alone.” Evie speaks _too_ quickly, like she’s only just realised how unhelpful that sounds.

Jacob wholeheartedly agrees with the sentiment.

“That makes me feel _so_ much better. Thank you.”

But he can tell Evie’s trying here, in that terribly awkward way of hers. He’s wondering, amused, what she’ll try to ease him with next.

"You were always the better sewer."

That’s a new one. A _compliment_.

"That's because I _try_. Don't toss my clothes away at the first sign of a pull."

She huffs under her breath. "Too fiddly. It's annoying."

He smiles, teasing. "The fact I can still sew better than you missing fingers, says a lot about that." Evie’s smirk is obliging, besides, he knows she doesn’t have a leg to stand on in defense. 

There’s a short pause while he adds a finishing knot to the first finger, and tugs to make sure it won’t come loose. Seems secure enough. “No mission tonight? No magical artifact to rescue? The world can wait to be saved?”

She ignores his flippant tone but he can tell he’s got under her skin, just a little.

“Mister Green and I are still researching the book and papers. We hope to have something to go on in the next few days.”

Jacob stares, incredulous. “ _Mister Green_? Are you going to call him that in the marriage bed?”

“Ja _cob_!” She thumps him hard in the arm (good arm), but it was worth it for the mortified look on her face.

“I’m only saying.”

“Well you needn’t bother.”

He’s grinning and she’s fighting hers, and while they’re on the subject...

“So…” Jacob makes a fumbled attempt at casual. “...what do you think of Teddy?"

There’s a brief pause, and for a moment he thinks Evie’s stopped listening: but a side-eyed glance reveals a fretful crease growing between her pointed brows. 

"...oh, _Jacob_."

"What?!"

"You haven't?"

" _No_. But there’s the _possibility_."

He can see the cogs turning inside her head like an assembly line, churning out things he doesn’t want to hear. Dear sister doesn’t disappoint. 

"I don't think it's a good idea." 

A little defensive at her immediate disavowing, Jacob huffs. "This, coming from the woman who won't even call the bloke she fancies by his _first name_."

Evie rolls her eyes, using that lofty eldest sibling tone she pulls out whenever the opportunity arises. "I simply ask that you be careful."

"Don’t want me cropping up in an article?" He shows her a smile but she’s unmoved, stuck in that serious frown.

"What makes you so sure he's even, _like_ that."

Jacob sits up a bit and takes a breath, sticking out his chest with a breezy sigh. "He said he _thought_ I was attractive." 

Now it’s Evie’s turn to sound incredulous. "In that _exact_ phrasing?"

"He said I was 'pretty'."

She tries to stop a laugh squeezing out but fails badly. Jacob frowns.

"Hm. I suppose, if you _squint_ —"

" _Evie_!"

She laughs again and Jacob carries on sewing, glum. 

"Well, as far as he goes I don’t see it, personally. But if _you_ think so."

Jacob knows that's as much of an emphatic _yes_ that he's going to get from her, but still. He can’t help a grin gaining traction. “Oh, I do. He asked me up to _his room_.”

“Alright, I don’t need to hear anymore.”

“But Evie I want to give you _all_ the details—” He stands up and takes two steps after her as she flees the tiny cabin, calling cheerfully at her retreating back. 

“ _I’ll fill you in later_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favourite chapters so far, I hope you all enjoyed it! 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Brighton** : is a popular sea-side town on the south coast of England
> 
>  **Evie's bathing gown** : it really is as hideous as Jacob describes [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/cmusdxhk0ejxzbu/Evie%27s_Hideous_Bathing_Gown.jpg?dl=0)
> 
>  **''I can’t very well wear what _you_ are''**: Evie is correct, because Jacob is hardly wearing a bloody thing [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/vvi75royj107i3f/Summer_Scene_Frederic_Basille.jpg?dl=0)
> 
>  **Homosexuality in 1859** : it was still punishable by death until two years later, in 1861 (see chapter 9 notes)
> 
>  **Jacob's violin** : there is a violin propped up in-game underneath the assassination wall. Since Jacob frequents that carriage, I naturally assigned it to him. He is a cultured boy, damnit
> 
>  **Newspaper article** : crimes like these were written about in newspapers this way, and as far as my research found, the murderers and thieves really _were_ granted bail over those damn pesky homosexuals. The British Newspaper Archive is a brilliant source for such things, it goes as far back as the 1700's, and I'm sure you writers out there would love the link to it... boop [[x]](https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/)
> 
>  **Ifield** : a village in Crawley, about 45 minutes walk from the twin's house
> 
>  **Three Bridges** : a village in Crawley, around an hour's walk away from the twin's house
> 
>  **Smells like lemon** : lemon was apparently a popular fragrance for ladies in the early-mid Victorian period, in perfumes and such
> 
>  **Nickey** : Victorian slang for someone who's simple in the head


	11. i start digging up the yard for what's left of me

He sticks it in, twists as far as it’ll go and sighs, satisfied.

With the last of the screws finally set, Jacob’s hidden blade is fully fixed onto his new gauntlet. Steel gleaming, leather shining, blade glinting. All that top stuff. 

Luckily they have the odds and sods to craft a new one here, in the munitions carriage of the train, and Jacob’s been at it a good part of the last hour fixing it up. Doesn’t yet have anything else attached, but this is a start. There’s honestly everything he could need here, he’s hardly want for anything.

Except a Teddy. He’d like one of those, please.

Bertha’s been bereft of the fella’s presence for two days now, and Jacob’s felt just a little... empty? ...morose? No, that’s not quite it.

Ah.

Bored as fuck.

He’s dabbled with the thought of sending Ted a note-by-Rook several times already; even began drafting one, before realising he had nothing of substance to say. Told himself _no_ , he can wait until Monday, it’s not long now. Have some bloody self-restraint, for pity's sake.

Although it’s not _restraint_ he’s wanting.

It’s a bit of a problem. Hence distracting himself with reforming the gauntlet.

Completing its build is of particular importance anyway, more of a necessity, really: due to the small and irritating matter of one Doctor John Elliotson, who persists, rather maddeningly, in _living_. 

Not for long, though. 

If the villains would bloody drop dead on their own once in a while, Jacob thinks, he would be a much happier man. Be out of a job too, but that’s neither here nor there. 

The good Doctor was spared Jacob’s blade by luck and calamity that first go-round, but he’s confirmed to be at Lambeth Asylum next week. Has a _special_ theatre lecture for higher-profile guests, later than usual too: urchin intel says around ten at night.

Jacob’s invited himself.

Should be fun, getting back into it. He’s a little worried about his hand and his shoulder, but Lambeth isn’t exactly Victoria Tower. Even if he has to climb a floor or two, he has his gauntlet and his grapple back. All will be well.

But… just in case.

Maybe he ought to get out for a bit. Try some familiar old manoeuvres, climb, get used to using his arms again. Back to playing a regular Jules Léotard, up in the air with the greatest of ease.

Eh, he'll get round to it.

A heavy _thud_ from above makes Jacob jump, reverberates across the roof of the carriage in flat-heeled boots. Already walking with purpose over his head, towards the front of the train—ah, scratch that. _Stalking_ there.

Evie. 

Must have returned from her jaunt to the Monument. Too bad Jacob couldn’t tag along, lend half a hand.

He quickly brushes the remaining screws into a messy pile for later and makes to follow, leaving his work for now. She’s bound to be on her way to speak with Henry, air her grievances and triumphs, ringing like a church bell. 

Sure as the sunrise, Evie’s raised voice carries a carriage over—though Jacob can’t quite make out her words over the clattering of the rails, it’s enough to know she’s _angry_. Hopping over the coupling of the private car and into view, he glances warily between the two frazzled lovebirds.

“Everything alright?”

Evie’s sigh is strained. More dishevelled wisps of hair have escaped her braided crown than usual, fanned out around her ruddy face. 

Sweet sister, looking uncommonly murderous? Say it isn’t so.

Rather like the time _someone_ stole all her hair pins, actually, and stuck each one deep in the mud at the bottom of the garden. Jacob nearly grins at the memory, because it had been marvellous payback for the time she _accidentally_ snapped the string on his bow and arrow. 

Back in the carriage, Evie stills her pacing and pinches her nose so hard Jacob feels sorry for it.

“Not really, no.”

He steps further into the carriage, wondering what could have gotten her this way—it usually takes quite an event to drive Evie to this level of red-cheeked frustration, or just the one little brother.

“Care to explain?”

“Evie went—”

“I had the key— _in my hand_ —and Lucy Thorne _stole it_.”

A tiny, hidden part of Jacob—locked and buried in a vault several hundred feet deep, part—flinches at the mention of that _woman’s_ name, gut tightening queasily. He hates her even more for it.

Bites his tongue, only just keeps from growling that he doesn’t give two honest shits for any key, he’s more concerned with Evie going up against Thorne. Not that he wouldn’t place a hefty wager on his raging fire of a sister—she could wipe the floor with that ginger trollop—but still. Thorne’s not to be trifled with.

Wisely remaining where he is despite wanting to move nearer, Jacob knows well enough by now to give Evie the breadth of Hyde Park when she’s in this state. Asks instead, warily.

“Are _you_ alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Well, _that’s_ said _far_ too quickly.

“She has an injury. On her upper arm.” 

There’s why.

Evie only rolls her eyes to the train car roof and shoots daggers Greenie’s way, albeit briefly. 

Jacob knows _that_ look: _snitches get stitches_ she’d sing, before chasing him around the garden with the closest thing she could grab in her chubby little fingers. A trowel, spading fork, an auger… the list is numerous and all _very_ pointy. He still has the scars.

“ _Evie_.” Jacob frowns, worried, but she tuts away his concern.

“It’s hardly a scratch. What’s more important is that she _took_ the key.”

 _That’s debatable_ , Jacob doesn’t say, sharing a brief look of tacit disapproval with Henry—it’s clear that neither one of them believes her, and he’s grateful for that at least. Evie can shrug him off all she wants, he’s used to it, but Greenie’s an untested variable. Harder to ignore, maybe.

As if sensing Jacob’s budding unease, the bloke fetches out a small wooden box from under the desk, begins silently organising the supplies he’ll need. Bandages, ointment, maybe even a stitch or two, depending on how deep her wound. 

Jacob scowls at the thought.

Watches Greenie gingerly part the split leather at her torn bicep, murmuring apologies before reaching for the needle and thread, alcohol. Evie’s looking none-too-pleased about the tending, but that’s nothing new; she’s never been an easy patient. Not even for _Mister Green_ , it seems.

Jacob idles his way over, relieved to note the scratch itself looks wide, but not deep. Should heal fully within a week or so.

The precursor book is laid open beside the kit, and he guises his worry with feigned interest, something to occupy his hands while he waits for her to be finished. Afterwards they can have a more in-depth chat, look at their options.

Sends his sis an unfortunate smile on his way. 

“Looks like she got us, both.” 

Evie’s glare back is intense, clearly not in a jovial mood—whoever would’ve guessed. Jacob sighs and turns his attention on the book, flipping through delicate sketches, the intricate notes overlaid on each page. 

It’s pretty, in a boring kind of way.

“How are you doing, with Elliotson.”

Evie’s watching his back, he can tell. Jacob trails an answer, nonchalant. “I’m fixing up my gear, right now… working on my gauntlet.”

“And Lambeth? Have you studied the plans, the layout?”

Her tone stiffens and so does Jacob, raising his head from the book to frown at the wall. “No, not _yet_ —”

“—you need to be prepared, Jacob. We can’t have a repeat of what happened at the mansion.”

He finally turns a look over his shoulder, prickling. “There won’t _be_ a repeat. I have it all under control.”

“I hope so.” Evie doesn’t even deign him a glance—too busy watching Greenie stitch her arm, jaw set. 

Jacob glares, stung.

“I’ve only been back here a _week_.” He hates how his voice cracks, and how Evie _finally_ stares at him: like she’s trying to work out why that little insignificant detail is even relevant. 

Jacob doesn’t think he should have to explain it, if she can’t figure it out herself. So much for Sunday’s talk. It seemed a turning point with them, but, what the _hell_ is this?

He's not allowing her to win.

So Jacob stays put, digs his heels in and goes back to her precious bloody book. Finds the page detailing the key and all the related gaff, and reads through. Twice.

By the time Evie has her stitches done and dusted, Jacob'll know just as much as her on this nonsense.

Still won't change it from being nonsense.   
  


* * *

  
The promising aroma of a hot meal wafts through the door, guiding his feet in a leap across the coupling.

Jacob had told himself to finish up fixing his gauntlet before he came here, and he has. _Not_.

It’s difficult, truth be told. With his hand n’all.

So he’s cut himself some time for dinner, a nice thick slab of it, seeing as it’s already gone teatime.

The dining carriage is as empty as a bureaucrat's promises, but it _is_ nearing dusk. Most of his Rooks will be heading out for their nightly posts, or they’re already on duty. 

Evie’s probably pacing a groove in the floor of her car, steam billowing from her ears and fire spewing from her feet. 

And so Jacob is alone. 

Oh, how he wishes Teddy was here.

The bloke’s searing wit, his kindred smile—he illuminated Jacob’s first few dire days in that dank cell, and afterward, healing side by side. They shared a meal here, before Ted left for Southwark: an unusually quiet affair, content to fill their plates and the space around them with silent, feverish gratitude. An unshakable bond between two men who stared death in its beady eye, and limped away arm-in-arm.

Ah, fuck.

He can’t sit thinking about the man any longer than he already has, it’s edging on pathetic. Besides, there’ll be barely any food left after his Rooks cleared the place out: they eat like a bread cart crashed into a workhouse, so he’ll take whatever he can get.

A few minutes later Jacob parks it at a table in the centre of the car, beside the window. Might as well enjoy the view of London at sunset, it’ll keep him company.

Piping hot steak and kidney pie, peas and carrots in melted butter. A lovely big dollop of creamy mash on the side, and a nice warm ale to boot. Turns out there was more left over than he thought, and good thing too. He’s bloody starved.

Jacob’s just tucking in when a green uniform appears at the door, he sends them a nod: Thomas, solid chap. He'll have just ended his afternoon shift, probably here for the same reason as Jacob.

“Chief. Been requested I deliver this to you.”

Ah. Apparently not.

Brows piqued, he sets down his fork, piled high with a tasty mouthful of pie, gravy and mash. It can wait. He supposes.

“Cheers, Tom.”

Accepting the proffered note, Jacob’s barely nodded his thanks before the man makes himself scarce—off to the bar carriage, likely. The lads there had tried dragging him into a cribbage match earlier, though Jacob sadly begged off on account of his gauntlet. 

Probably for the best. He’s saving his silver for some sparkly new togs, anyway.

Breaking the wax seal with his thumb, Jacob reads the letter aloud to himself, grin splitting his face.

“‘ _Mister Frye, I request a meeting with you three days hence, Scotland Yard at three o’clock. It is a matter of which we have spoken prior, I trust you know to what I refer._ ’"

Jacob scoffs, amused. “The fact I do your job for you, Freddy."

"‘ _I thank you for your time, cordially yours, etcetera, Sergeant F.Abberline_.’” 

He tuts, fond. 

“...such a flirt.”

Three days hence, that’s Monday. 

Jacob pops down the letter and returns to his grub, realises halfway through his next mouthful _he’s meeting Teddy_ at Monday noon—not to mention that Elliotson thing the very same evening, damn it all! He’d so carefully arranged them, made sure there would be plenty of time between both, and yet. 

Hell, it’s beginning to feel like the entire known _world_ is against him finding a bloke.

Jacob drowns his sorrows with more pie, gravy, and ale, the train gently rocking as it hurtles from Waterloo to London Bridge, an orange-skyed Southwark drifting by the windows. 

He’ll be passing Ted’s house soon. It is, after all, right beside the tracks.

Chasing peas around his plate, Jacob half-contemplates saying _sod it_ and jumping off at the next station, taking a stroll to Teddy’s. 

He’s almost sure the fella wouldn’t mind.

With those tasty thoughts flitting round his head, he’s tucking the copper’s note back into its embossed envelope, and then neatly inside his waistband, when a different sort of uniform appears at the door: white, yellow, and violet. A familiar sight. 

“Jacob, there you are. I was looking for you.”

Greenie has that strung-out sort of countenance that only Evie can give a bloke, looks like he’s been through the wringer. Jacob feels a bit sorry for him, but also a bit amused. Masks it with an easy smile.

“What has she decided I’ve done wrong, now?” He feigns a sigh, takes in a mouthful of pie. 

Greenie frowns.

“Nothing. I… wanted to ask you something, myself.”

Jacob raises a brow for him to go on, interest piqued, and motions to the chair opposite him, Greenie takes up the offer.

“Has she spoken to you, about, any of it? Earlier?”

Oh, that’s easy. Jacob shakes his head, knocks back a sip of ale. “Not a peep. Not even _seen_ her.”

“Do you think I should?”

Jacob stares. “ _Talk_ to her?” 

Henry simply nods, and Jacob scoffs. Amateur mistake. “Not if you value your life.”

“Ah. Then, how long should I wait?”

“You shouldn’t.” Jacob slouches back in his chair, arms outstretched to the table’s edge, feeling like a tsar surveying his kingdom of sage instruction. “Let _her_ come to _you_. That way, it’s easier for everyone.”

Greenie seems to mull that over, and honestly, Jacob’s advice is second to none, if he does say so himself. There’s a look on the chap’s face that seems he wants to ask more, perhaps even question it, but daren’t. 

Jacob keeps quiet, helps himself to another crispy bite of pie. The man’ll ask when he’s ready. 

“Any more advice?”

Here we go.

There’s a not-so-small part of Jacob that preens at the attention, at the notion he’s master of a subject where Greenie’s the novice. _The Oracle of Evie Frye_ , handing out all his wise and well-earned wisdom to weary travellers through a harsh and treacherous land. 

Too bad Jacob can’t remember half of it when dealing with her himself.

“I think she’ll cut _you_ some slack but, if you don’t do everything perfectly, she’ll take you to task. Then feel the need to do it herself. Which in turn makes _you_ feel worse for,” He rolls his eyes, having been through it himself too many times to count. “—not living up to her impossible standards.”

Henry nods, looks like he’s writing that down in his head, marking it for future use and hiding it away, keeping it safe for later.

Poor bloke’s going to need it. 

When they’d first met Henry Green, on that roof in Whitechapel all those weeks ago, Evie had stars in her eyes while Jacob had flint. The mysterious Ghost of London knew everything and everyone, never set a single foot wrong. Had an answer for every question, a contact in every court. Seemed to Jacob that he was witnessing every reason why his father abandoned him to train up this other boy, all at once.

Soon got over that tripe way of thinking when Jacob realised, once again, that even from beyond the grave his father was pitting him against another—this time Henry, comparing stats and losses versus victories and vitals. 

A battle Jacob could never win. 

He’s a little vindicated, then, that Henry is humble enough to come and ask advice on a topic he knows nothing about. Makes Jacob feel lauded, knowledgeable even.

More than eager to reward that feeling, he offers up a few more juicy tidbits for dealing with his sister; many _do-nots_ and several _don’ts_ , with a few _nevers_ peppered in there for good measure. 

He ends with perhaps the most important one, regarding fieldwork: 

“Oh, and never ‘ _deviate from the mission_ ’. If you peel back her eyelids, that phrase is written there.”

“Hm, I will remember _all_ of those. Thank you.” Greenie’s own eyes are wide, but he’s clearly relieved.

It’s nice to feel appreciated.

“You’re welcome.” Jacob takes a hearty bite of crust, more than pleased.

Greenie leaves him with a smile, shifting to stand from the table.

Suddenly clocking that they’re alone, no one else within earshot, Jacob screws his courage to the sticking place before Henry can go and blurts, desperately.

“ _Henry_?”

“Yes?”

“How was it, growing up with my father?”

No beating around the bush, here.

All Greenie does is raise one dark brow, and bloody hell, Jacob _wishes_ he could be so cool and collected whenever Father is brought up. He barely had the nerve to ask.

Henry sinks into the chair opposite Jacob once again, fingers carefully lacing together in contemplation.

“When he first appeared in my home, I wasn’t sure what to make of him. It took me a long time to understand, but he was very troubled; pensive and preoccupied, when we first met.” The bloke’s gentle voice is steady, thoughtful.

“Now of course, I know why. But as a child I feared he simply did not like me, what with no outward care or affection, not even a smile for the first half-year of our being together. The training I received from him contrasted greatly with my father’s teachings up until that time. Rather than encouragement, from Ethan there were harsh words and clipped asides. I felt I was always striving for something that would never manifest. It was several months before I saw even the smallest glimmer of approval.” 

So far, so miserable—sounds _just_ like dear old dad. Colour Jacob not at all surprised.

But… he sort of is. A little.

Jacob pokes further.

Can’t spend six years with someone without a bit of trust. Love, even. 

“Surely, he grew to like you?” 

Jacob, are you _hearing_ yourself?

“I believe so, yes.” Henry refolds his hands, placid. “But he was my teacher, not my father. He was never _warm_ , or yielding. Always very, stern.”

Huh.

“But eventually he trained you up, ready for the field?”

“Yes. Though once my schooling was completed, on the day before he was to depart for England—to return to you—Ethan informed my father, and mother, that I would _never_ be what they wanted.”

Jacob gawks.

“He said I didn’t have the killer instinct required to become a ‘skilled Assassin’. At the time, it hurt deeply, for both me and my parents. But, as it turned out, he was right.”

Jacob blinks; baffled, and more than a little annoyed. Feels his stomach turn, hearing his father was _right_.

“Greenie, you’re an incredible bloke. I’ve seen you out, you can more than handle your own.”

“This is different, Jacob. _You_ have it. You wouldn’t understand.”

Jacob cocks a brow, trying to. There are simply more cards to this deck than Henry’s showing in his hand, for once however, Jacob doesn’t have the inclination to cheat. 

There’s also a not-so-little part of him that’s relieved. Relieved that his father was still a prick to this other boy, the one he abandoned him and Evie for. A perfect little Indian lad from halfway round the world: born of a Master Assassin and royalty, and he _still_ wasn’t good enough for fucking Ethan Frye.

“So how did he figure _you_ didn’t? If he’d only trained you, hadn’t seen you out in the field.”

Henry shrugs. “I’m not sure. But, even my father eventually agreed. And Arbaaz Mir is the most proud and stubborn man you will ever meet.”

Jacob wants to mention he himself exists, but it’s hardly the time for a joke.

Letting out a breath, allowing the tension to roll off his shoulders from all this discussion of his father, Jacob leans back in his creaking chair, mulling some of this over. 

Doesn’t take long for Greenie to speak up.

“Jacob. I know you and your father’s relationship was strained. I can’t understand why that may have been, but I know Ethan was all about end results. You’re… unconventional, a little forward, sometimes, but your mission gets done.”

Jacob takes a beat, puts on a weak smile to mollify what he’s about to say.

“Thing is, Greenie. While that may be true, it was never the _end result_ he was interested in, with me. It was how I measured up to Evie. And let’s just say, I never could.”

Henry’s chipper look fades, that gentle face lined with regret. Jacob keeps on.

“I’m glad you had a good experience with him, and that he seemed to help you, truly. But please, don’t try to make me feel better.” Jacob breathes out with a hand down his face, a limp shrug. The past can’t be changed. “It can’t be done.”

“For that, I am sorry.” Greenie’s nod is one of recognition, respect. 

Jacob shakes his head, opening his mouth to dismiss the unnecessary apology, but Henry isn’t through.

“If it was my interference that caused any kind of rift, I can only apologise.”

Jacob’s voice is sure and certain. “ _None_ of this is anyone’s fault but my father’s.” 

Greenie appears to chew on that, resting back in the chair and looking out at London sailing by. Jacob finds his food’s gone cold and rolls his eyes at no one but himself.

“Even so, he did do some great things.”

Henry has a wistful sort of cadence, one that is _not_ warranted for thoughts of his father, and Jacob _really_ doesn’t want to hear them either. Can he halt this and please leave the conversation now? This wasn’t in the itinerary. Thanks. Sincerely yours, Jacob Frye. 

But Greenie carries on.

“For one, he saved my life.”

Okay, maybe he will listen.

With Jacob back to appearing halfway interested, Henry takes the cue.

“I won’t bore you with details, Jacob. But I found myself marked for death, by the Indian Brotherhood. He convinced the elders to spare me: sent me to London on a _covert_ operation. Banished, rather than dead. I will forever be grateful.”

Oh, shit.

“For _that_ , me too.” That an initiate could fuck up something so badly the _Brotherhood_ would want you dead? And _Greenie_ , at that? Jesus.

“I had the feeling that if he couldn’t persuade them, he would have broken me out of that pit himself.”

Jacob offers a hollow smile, remembering.

 _Oi! You little prick, you have a visitor_ , the guard had bellowed through the bars at Jacob, all of fourteen and shit-scared. He’d been thrown in the nick for getting dragged into a brawl outside the Prince of Wales _two_ nights earlier. 

_Two whole days_. It had taken two whole days for Evie to come for him? Still, she was there and that was all that mattered. 

Or so he thought. 

Jacob was partaking in a game of cards inside the pub; they’d thought he cheated when he actually _fucking hadn’t_. But would they listen? 

Would they hell. 

Jacob had earned a black eye, a partially broken nose, and most of the shit kicked out of him by a gang of eight lads. Only a couple of the other boys were collared along with him, most of the bastards got away. The two who had been caught were in the cell next to him, making his life a living hell.

Still, he gave as good as he got, that's what he told himself after. Just didn’t manage to leg it in time to miss the bobbies. Hard to run when your face is buried in the floor, with a foot on the back of your neck.

Relief at the thought of Evie had choked his lungs, that she’d finally come to his rescue.

But it was Father who showed up. 

_What have you done with yourself, Jacob?_ Was all that the man had offered. Jacob only wanted him to post bail, get him out. He was tired, and hungry, and his face fucking hurt. Just wanted to go home. _Please_.

Pitifully, a naive Jacob had asked as much.

His father’s response?

 _You got yourself in there, I trust you can get yourself out_.

Jacob had indeed gotten himself out. No need to delve much further, but that escape was finally made by way of a loose belt, a kick up the arse, and some quick footwork leaping out an open window. Oh, and some light horse theft.

He didn’t go home for a month after that. Felt like something had been stretched too far between him and his father, something hopeless. Frayed beyond repair, and past the point of mending. 

And next time he saw Evie, Jacob gave her a mouthful for leaving him there, for throwing him under the burning bus. 

Her reasoning?

She was scared of what Father would _think_ of her, if he ever found out that she’d helped. 

What a nice privilege that must have been. To have the option.

Jacob’s back in the room with Henry, the train is still travelling at speed. A slight monotonous sway jostles him in his seat, cutlery sliding. Snapping out of it, he fights to keep the bitterness from his face, offers a smile instead.

“I’m glad he helped you.”

“I’m sorry he didn’t help you.”

Jacob usually takes apologies with a grain of salt, but this requires not a single one. 

Authentic and heartfelt, that’s Henry in a nutshell. He’s a better man than Jacob, and infinitely better than Ethan Frye.

He was a fool for ever thinking otherwise. 

“You’re a good one, Greenie.” Jacob stuffs a bite of steak and mash past his lips before grinning, pointing his empty fork the man’s way. “I can see why Evie fancies you.”

He watches Henry blush to the roots beneath his warm brown skin, embarrassment scrawled all over the old boy’s face—but beneath that, the smallest glimmer of hope. Jacob’s looked in the mirror enough lately to know a lovesick man when he sees one. 

God help them all.

His food is cold. Carries on eating, anyway.  
  


* * *

  
He slips on his gauntlet, admiring the fit and the _schick_ of the blade as it springs out. 

It’s gone dark outside in the speeding night, but Jacob’s lit a few lamps over the work table, lending him time to finish the job. Light glints off the point of his grapple as he admires the fit, now properly affixed beside his blade, after nabbing a replacement from Aleck. 

Wasn’t difficult to flatter the man into crafting a couple more of the contraptions for them—a few choice compliments via the written word, and Jacob soon found himself in possession of both grappling hook and spare, just in case. A pair of Rooks nipped by earlier to fetch the parts once they were assembled and ready. 

Returned with an invitation to pop round anytime, of course. 

Testing his hidden blade once more—fascinated by the glint of the steel, crisp _snick_ as it slides free from beneath his wrist—Jacob grins, satisfied at last. It’s working perfectly from earlier, hunky dory, pudding and pie. His second blade for his right hand will be another project, but one for a different time. Not even thought about tackling that quite yet; his hand will be sandwiched in gauze for long enough already.

All that’s missing now are his serum darts, as they remain unfinished. Aleck had sent along his apologies for the delay; unneeded, but charming and ludicrous nonetheless. Mad as a bag of ferrets, that one. 

Groping behind for the turnscrew he set aside, Jacob finally turns to look, but it’s not there. Must have rolled to the floor while he was preoccupied. Raising the nearest lantern, Jacob’s swiveling in his chair, peering beneath the worktable. 

“Looking for _this_?”

 _Behind_ him a smug voice sounds and Jacob jumps a mile. 

“ _Jesus_ , Evie!”

Turns to see it’s only _sweet sister_ stood there, with an irksome amount of amusement barely kept at bay in her illuminated face.

Turnscrew held aloft in her hand.

Jacob tuts, tries not to give her the satisfaction of a smile in return as he swipes the offered tool, crashing back into his seat.

“Yeah, _thanks_.”

Eyes her a bit warily as Evie pulls up another stool to perch beside him, unsure if he’s in for another lecture or apology.

“Sorry, I was short with you. This afternoon.” 

An apology then.

“It’s alright. I get it, you were pissed off.”

She nods, leant against the workbench, nails tapping an anxious note on a nearby glass vial.

“The Key was on a necklace, and I was wearing it. Foolish. Thorne grabbed hold and dragged me towards broken glass between us.” 

Jacob’s alarmed at the sudden divulgence, that Evie was in this danger _alone_.

“I _had_ to let it go.”

“Of _course_ you did. It’s not worth dying over.”

“Father would disagree.”

He bites his tongue, stays his first, _immediate_ answer to that. Jacob takes a moment, thinking how best to respond.

“We can get it back. You said they have no idea where the shawl is—”

“ _Shroud—_ ”

“—the _shroud_ is. Then they’re at the same point as us. Just happen to have a useless bauble to wear.”

Evie smiles to herself, slowly trades him a fond, almost envious look. “Wish I could see these things your way, sometimes.” 

Jacob shrugs, charmed. “It’s a gift.”

She turns back to staring into the dirty glass vial, her smile fading, voice low.

“I let her in my head. Allowed her to get the better of me.”

Jacob looks at her with quiet understanding, knowing how well Thorne is capable of that.

Evie’s fist tightens at the table’s edge, nearly shaking with anger.

“She spoke your name.” 

He’s surprised at the revelation, but honestly, should he be? 

“I _despised_ it, passing her lips for even a _second._ ”

“You attacked her in anger and she used it to her advantage.” Jacob’s quoting someone, those aren’t his own words—either Evie herself, or his father, he can’t recall. Probably both. Definitely both. He’s had them repeated his way enough times to know them by heart.

Evie’s cogs are turning; if Jacob could peer inside her head, he’s sure it would be at full steam, engines soaring, pistons firing to churn out an answer. 

But there simply, isn’t one.

Jacob makes his own.

“No matter what she said about me. It isn’t true.” He has no bloody clue what that bint might have hissed, but helping Evie forget her doubts, stop blaming herself is paramount. Get that fretful look off her face.

That's more important. 

“How do you know what she said?”

Jacob leans back on his stool, stretching his arms above his head before realising that’s a _bad_ idea and winces, pained. “ _Well_ , I doubt she spoke any kind of praise or glory. Therefore, _bollocks_.”

Her laugh rings out, loud and unexpected.

It’s a brilliant sound as it fills the entirety of the empty carriage, wins out over the gruelling _chug_ of Bertha to his ears. 

He goes for a reassuring cherry-on-top. “We’ll get it back.” 

Evie nods, slow and deadly. Those bright blues gleam, nearly feral—and _there’s_ the Evie he remembers, the one who nicked a bull from the collection plate at church, and spent the whole of it on sweet buns for them both. Makes Jacob thrill, grinning like a Cheshire cat with a mouse in his mouth.

“Then we’ll kill her.”

His sis pins him a nostalgic look, one they used to share when they were children and about to land themselves in an infinite amount of trouble with their nan, neighbours, random passersby. Father, even. 

“Only if we do it together.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When they're getting along, they're the best, aren't they!?
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Victoria Tower** : the tower located at the south-west end of the Palace of Westminster. At 323 feet tall, it's 7 foot taller than Clock Tower aka 'Big Ben'. Upon completion in 1860, it was the tallest non-religious building in the world
> 
>  **Jules Léotard** : was a French acrobatic performer and aerialist. In 1859 he performed the first flying trapeze routine. In addition to having the leotard named after him, he was the subject of the 1867 song, 'The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze', which Jacob hears back in chapter 2
> 
>  **The Monument** : refers to the Monument to the Great Fire of London. The column that Evie climbs at the beginning of the mission 'A Room With A View'
> 
>  **Church Bell** : Victorian slang for a chatty woman
> 
>  **Workhouse** : the Victorian Workhouse was intended to provide work and shelter for poor and poverty-stricken people who had no means to support themselves. In reality, it became a free-labour prison system where mortality rates were high, conditions were inhumane, cramped and rife with assault, sexual and otherwise. Inmates were so starved for food they even fought over the animal bones they were supposed to crush up into fertiliser in order to suck the marrow from inside them just to get a 'meal'. If you want to be further horrified, I'd suggest reading about workhouses in Britain during the time
> 
>  **Henry Green & Ethan Frye**: direct quote from the Assassin's Creed wiki: "In 1847, following the death of his wife [Cecily Frye] in childbirth and blaming the newborn twins [Evie & Jacob] for his loss, a distraught Ethan [left England for] India to take up the training of [...] Jayadeep [Henry Green]." For **six** years
> 
>  **Arbaaz Mir** : Jayadeep Mir's [Henry's] father, married to Princess Pyara Kaur, Jayadeep's mother
> 
>  **Henry marked for death** : it's true, Henry mucked up his blooding so badly that the Indian Brotherhood scheduled him to be executed for breaking the tenets of the Creed. He was imprisoned and awaiting beheading until Ethan showed up in India (again abandoning his kids) to persuade Arbaaz to spare his own son. Ethan succeeded and instead Henry was banished to England to live as an Assassin there under the pseudonym "The Ghost"
> 
>  **Turnscrew** : screwdriver
> 
>  **Bull** : Victorian slang for five shillings, also called a Crown


	12. to the strand a picnic planned, for you and me

He’s been looking forward to this all week.

And the day’s finally here.

Strolling up Bedford Street, Jacob’s got a bit of a spring in his step. The sky is glorious, sun hung luminous: it’s right old Queen’s weather, if ever he saw it. Carts roll on, drivers airing their many grievances towards each other. House sparrows whiz past his ear, chattering, only to dive in the eaves of nearby buildings for cover; his new knee-length boots knock cleanly with every step up the fresh-swept pavements.

He’s feeling mighty sharp in his new togs, made the decision to get fitted this weekend and he’s not regretted it. 

Got a few brand spanking new outfits, top hat 'n all. Had to go to a half-dozen different shops, mind, but he ended up enjoying himself. Usually he _despises_ looking for new duds, would rather pluck his eyelashes out with railway tongs—but here, it’s different. And as soon as you let these tailors know you’re minted, they’re all smiles and _yes sir, I’m sure I have that in blue sir, of course sir_.

He snorts at the memory.

Besides, this is _London_. Jacob’s never been one for the flashy or bespoke back in Crawley, but even on his first day in Whitechapel station, the sheer variety and oddness of some people’s getups were mesmerising to him.

He’s just been too preoccupied with the Rooks, with other duties, to spend the time (and the considerable sums of money) on himself. 

Now that it’s happened though, Jacob’s never going back. He gets to express himself without speaking a word, and stand out without feeling like a sore thumb. Get away from bog-standard and look more swanky. Try some dashing combinations and find his style, attract the right sort of people, turn off the wrong.

His full-length duster overcoat hits the back of his calves with every stride; oilcloth in a light grey all over, with highlights of rich garnet-red on the lapels and lining, dashes on the lower back too. A contrasting pinstripe blue waistcoat, and his clean-cut white corduroy shirt are fitted well, look _sharp_. Collar open and up, of course.

The tailor trying to flog it to him said, rather strangely, that wearing this cut of coat would give him an edge, make a better marksman out of him. Jacob had laughed it off, already a tad nervous with his measurements being taken, unused to it.

He wonders if it’ll hit _Ted’s_ marks. Wants the man to be impressed. He’s been thinking about the bloke every day since they parted, hopes he managed to get his errant belongings in place and settled back to a routine, poor guy. 

They’re supposed to meet at noon, but what’s wrong with being a little early? 

An hour early, in fact. 

It’s not that he’s simply restless, or impatient, or heaven forbid— _desperate_. He’s all three, obviously, why stop at one, but Jacob felt like a stroll about town. And the train _happened_ to be at Charing Cross by ten-thirty, so why wait.

Reaching the mouth of Rose Street, Jacob turns down the short road, the Lamb and Flag towering at the end of the way, its red walls shining in the sunlight. 

Charlie Dickens recommended him the place, said it was one of his favourite _haunts_ (Jacob didn’t pardon the pun at the time), out and away from the main thoroughfare. Nice digs. Cosy. Quiet on a weekday. Should be perfect for a rendezvous with his mate.

Unfortunately, _one_ of those things appears untrue.

There are clusters of people standing outside the pub with pints in hand, chatting and laughing in general merriment, filling the run of cobbles in front of the place. It’s _alive_ , chock-a-block, and Jacob’s chipper mood tarnishes like decade-old copper. Normally for him the noisier, the better, but he’s got a feeling Teddy might be discouraged by the sheer number of bodies in here. 

He’ll nip in, see if he can grab them a table; if not, they’ll find somewhere else. No problem.

To Jacob’s relief, it’s far less crowded inside than out, and he gets served immediately. He orders two pints, and if he finishes his own before Ted shows he _may_ have the second. There’s also a few tables spare running along the far walls: Jacob grabs the smallest, most out-of-the-way and in the corner, stools rather than seats. Hunky-dory.

He drapes his duster carefully over the third stool along with his jacket, takes off his brand new top hat to set upon the table, and waits.

Truth be told, Jacob hopes Ted shows here early too. He’s had a follow-up note from Freddy early this morning, regretfully moving their meeting to one this afternoon, rather than three.

He can’t be peeved at the copper though, he’s not seen him since before the mansion debacle. Probably has a few person-of-interest cases that need tying up. And then, there’s the small matter of an assassination lined up for tonight with the good doctor. 

Despite it all, Jacob wants to carve out as much time with Teddy as possible. 

He'll think of something.

He's just finished his first pint when he notices a flat cap bobbing above the rest. It heads straight to the bar, and from a break in the crowd he can see that it’s Teddy, he’d know those lithe legs anywhere. 

The barman shoots a nod in Jacob’s direction just as he turns away, tries not to look like he’s been gawping this whole time. Hears the slightest variation in those footsteps towards the table, that’ll be his tender ankle—nearly healed, sounds like.

“Who’s this fine and handsome fella, then.”

Jacob’s smiling at the mere _sound_ of Teddy’s voice, only gets brighter when they lock eyes.

“I was about to ask the same thing.” He makes a matinee of looking Ted up and down, “You scrub up well.”

He’s missed seeing that smirk more than he thought.

And now that he’s much closer, Jacob can see _exactly_ what’s for dinner. For starters, a crisp white shirt with the topmost buttons undone—he likes a nice garnish on top. That thin chain fastened around Ted’s throat, peeping tantalisingly from his collar, and Jacob’s still achingly curious about that necklace. For mains he has a sharp pair of snug dark trousers, emphasis on the _snug_ side, showing off those lean lines he can’t stop thinking about. And to finish, a fetching tweed waistcoat that makes Teddy’s dark eyes look warm, welcoming, even easier to get lost in. 

To top it all off he’s wearing a grey flat cap, which Ted pops on the table beside Jacob’s, leaving behind little ringlets falling down his temple.

“Alright, Frye?”

Jacob appreciates Teddy’s obvious style, learning a new part of him he hasn’t had the chance to see before.

“Ah, _yeah_. You find the place easy enough?”

“The crowd outside gave me a clue.”

“I was worried they’d be in here too. Chose this place ‘cos I thought it’d be _quiet_.”

Jacob stands when Teddy goes to sit, and damn his nerves— _Jacob you fool, he’s not a lady_. Quickly sits down hoping he’s not blushing red and smooths his hair back, wondering why he’s got the collywobbles all of the sudden. 

Shoves the untouched-pint closer towards Ted for something to do. “Here. Got you this.”

“Oh, cheers.” Ted looks genuinely pleased, fingers curling around his mug while he takes a measured sip, then grins. Juts his chin at the table.

“Which prick left his hat here?”

Jacob’s fledgling smile vanishes. 

“Me. _I’m_ the prick.”

The smug bastard just raises an eyebrow, smirking into his pint.

Evie didn’t like it either. Hmph.

“I’m sure it’s fetching on you.”

Jacob raises his chin and his empty mug, catching the barmaid’s attention as he brags on himself. Someone has to. “It _is_. Got a few lingering stares on the way over here.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Ted doesn’t believe a word he says, and it shows. 

Jacob has his pint topped up and he gives his coin as well as his thanks, waits until she leaves before leaning on the table between him and Ted, insults about certain beloved hats forgotten. “I was worried you wouldn’t have all your furniture back when I left you. How’d that go?”

“Got it back, yeah. Helps that I didn’t have much to begin with.” Teddy looks suddenly embarrassed, toying with the ring of moisture from his ale and avoiding Jacob’s gaze. 

“Probably a bit strange, being back there?” He tries, and Ted looks up at him with an unreadable sort of expression, almost. Guarded. “After, you know.”

“Yeah. Never thought I’d see it again. Woke up last night in my own bed, for a minute I thought I was back in that hole. Almost feckin’ cried.”

Jacob frowns, knowing how that feels more than he'd ever like to. He pokes at the froth still atop his pint, reliving the unhappy memory but bolstered by the fact Ted will understand. "I dreamt I was back there too. That they'd taken my whole hand this time. That bitch wouldn't stop laughing." 

“Feck that.” Ted takes a fierce breath and then a drink, like he’s trying to wash the foul taste from his mouth. Gaze softening when he finds Jacob. “Though I know a man who coulda made it out, even missin’ his _arm_ , I heard.”

Jacob gains a wicked smile of his own, appreciating the wit. "Well, _I_ heard he fought off fifty guys, with _no_ arms." 

“God, but the pair o’ legs on him.”

Jacob lets out a deep, hearty laugh that feels cleansing all the way down to his very bones, needing this. "He can crack skulls with those thighs." He's pretty sure he could, actually.

Ted’s watching him over the rim of his ale, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “I’d like to see it."

Lowering his voice to match, Jacob calls that bluff. "The skull-cracking, or the thighs?"

Ted chokes on his pint.

That feels like a bit of a win, to put it mildly. Jacob hides his shameless grin in his own mug before he does Ted a solid and changes the subject, tone suddenly light. “You spoken to Ned at all, since you got back?” 

“Ah, Saturday. He’s got locks that need repairin’ so I’ve got work.” Teddy seems to have collected himself enough to smirk. Nudges Jacob’s ankle with the toe of his boot beneath the table. “He was _very_ interested in how you broke us out.”

Jacob pauses at the touch; even though it's only their feet, still feels intimate, delicate. He reciprocates, hooking his foot round the back of Ted's heel. 

"I hope you didn't exaggerate. You'll make me blush." 

“Not sure I could manage that if I tried.”

Averting his eyes to the table with a demure smile, Jacob’s overcome by the praise but hands some right back. “I’m sure if you’d had your gear, you’d have been outta there before I even arrived.”

There’s a pause again, and Ted carefully sets his hand on the tabletop, nearer to Jacob. Gives him a steady, quiet look. 

“I’m glad I didn’t.”

The noise of the other punters in the room seems to fade, although he's still very much aware of the crowd. 

Jacob's not looking at anyone or anything other than Teddy, when he slides his mug across the table to obscure their hands from view, before placing his own gently atop Ted's. 

"Me too. But not that you had to suffer." 

Ted forces a breathless laugh, shrugging off the past like it's far away. His fingers tremble under Jacob’s. “Well. Here now, aren’t we.”

Jacob can feel Teddy’s nerves, can see him darting cautious looks around the room because they’re not alone—and breathing deep, he wants to share some of his own courage. He’s never wanted anything like he wants this moment, this chance, he’s on fire with it. Heady with the possibility of want, of _being wanted_ , stroking his thumb along the edge of Ted's palm. 

Gentle. Aching. 

"We are." 

Teddy draws back suddenly, fits a hasty hand around his pint—Jacob barely has time to mourn the loss when the barmaid passes by, juggling a tray of empty mugs. 

Pulls his own mug back, takes a rueful sip, shoves on a smile.

“So, been up to much else? Besides, work.”

Ted resettles on his stool, ankle sliding comfortably against Jacob’s once more. He grins, small and private.

“Not a thing. Yourself?”

“Um, just putting out fires, as they crop up, you know.” He opts not to mention Friday’s episode with Evie, sticks to something more casual. A little less… insane. 

“I invested in a couple new get-ups. I’m not usually one for it.”

Teddy rakes a slow, approving gaze over his new gear, down the embroidered waistcoat he’s so proud of. Makes his belly twist with something he can’t name. 

“It suits you.”

Jacob can’t help adding, amused. “Excepting the hat.”

Another laugh, and God—he could get used to hearing that every day. “Even the hat.”

It may have been a clumsy start to their meet but Jacob feels completely at ease now, like they never parted the middle of last week. 

It’s perfect. 

“Oh, here’s a good one. I went to pay Missus Weaver my rent, and as it turns out… you’d already paid it. _Four months_ in advance.”

Jacob gains a modest little smile, taking a sip before his confidence shines on through. “Yeah. That a problem?” 

“No.” The man looks almost shy. “Thank you.”

Jacob smiles in kind, feeling pleased his gesture worked. He can sense the slight unease on the topic, so tries to kick that into next week with a wink, slides his foot all the way up Ted’s calf to the back of his knee. "Buy me a pint, then we're square." 

Ted snorts. “Don’t think it works like that.”

“Alright. _Two_ pints.”

Teddy laughs and Jacob does too, sees those fine lines creasing at the corners of his eyes again. Makes him warm, knowing he put them there. 

Conversation flows so seamlessly between the two of them, and not only because Jacob had kept a scattering of prepared questions in his head in case he needed any—he’s not even _asked_ any of those.

They talk for longer, their feet sliding and nudging under the table: he doesn’t try to touch Teddy’s hand again, even though he wants to. Settles for watching his every expression instead, the bob of his curls, the way Ted likes to touch his face after he’s laughed; he could stay here all day.

He’s never felt like this about anyone. Never gotten to know someone in this way and have it returned with such ease.

When the dull roar of conversation in the establishment picks up a notch, enough to fog the end of one of Teddy’s replies, Jacob casts a glance about to realise the place is filling up. It’s starting to look like outside is filtering in here. And upon stealing a quick peek at the clock, he almost sends his pint off the table.

It’s ten to one. 

He’s _definitely_ going to be late to meet Freddy. Looking back at Ted, Jacob has no mind for apologies; he _does_ however have thoughts for a follow-up.

“Ted. Doing anything later?”

A blind man could see the hope in Teddy’s face. “Was about to ask you the same, Frye.”

“I, uh, actually have a meeting with a contact, in ten minutes. Didn’t realise the time. It got moved up from three.” Some of that hope splits for the Channel and Jacob hates it, tries to add a silver lining. “I shouldn’t be longer than an hour at the most. Would you... want to meet afterwards?”

Teddy’s dark brows remain plastered up his forehead, but this time they’re coupled with a smile. “I’d like that.”

His heart pulls a strange flutter that he thought only happened in those fartsy romance novels Evie reads and tries to hide, realises that being a cliché feels better than he’d anticipated. “That’s what I like to hear.” 

Jacob reaches in his jacket’s inside pocket, pulls out a crumple of paper and a pencil, and jots down an address. He’s careful, methodical with his script to make it legible for Ted, still struggling a little with his hand. “I’ll be here, at three.” He passes over the note with a smart little grin. “ _Don’t_ get there early.”

Teddy smirks broad and pockets the note, gaze never leaving Jacob. “Says the man who stopped here before I did.”

Instead of laughing, which is what he wants to do, Jacob opts for an air of mystery. “I had my reasons for that.”

“And I can’t wait to hear them.”

Teddy’s not ever going to, Jacob’s decided, unless he’s drunk one night and pries it out of him, which is a distinct possibility. He has a feeling he’d tell Ted anything if he asked, and he not-so-secretly likes the thought. 

Jacob pushes to his feet while finishing the dregs in his mug, slips on both his coats, the jacket, then the duster over the top, before straightening up his lapels and collar. 

“Now be careful wandering around here. Don’t get prigged in Trafalgar staring up at that big column.”

His mate raises one sly brow, seeing right through his clever innuendo with a quirk of his lips. “Got my eye on another, actually.”

Jacob rolls along with the game, plucking his hat from the table top and smoothing back his hair, praying his giddiness isn't overly apparent. “Hm. Hope it doesn’t disappoint.”

Ted only watches him all the while, sharp chin resting in his hand as he looks up through soot-dark lashes. The sight is far more intoxicating than any brew.

“Don’t think he can.”

Jacob clears his throat, strained. “ _Right_. I’m going to leave before I say ‘sod it’ and don’t bother going.”

The grin on Ted’s face brings the sunshine inside with it. “Until later, then.”

“Until then.” 

He thinks better of brushing Ted’s shoulder, cupping his chin, trailing a hand down his back in farewell. Jacob gives him a soft nod, leaving him with a smile before striding off through the growing crowd. 

Hears the bell chiming one o’clock when his feet hit the cobbles. 

Freddy will understand.

* * *

  
Twenty minutes later Jacob’s inside Scotland Yard, taking the stairs three per stride up to the second floor, this time knowing _exactly_ which office is Freddy’s. 

He says _this_ time: his first visit to the Met saw Jacob grappling through the window of the wrong sodding office. Had to explain himself to three different constables—none of whom believed a bloody word he said, naturally—and things culminated with him in a cell, his weapons confiscated, and a red-faced Freddy outside the bars. The man spent a further half-hour petitioning his Inspector to release Jacob on grounds of good character, which was, quite frankly, _insulting_.

Still, it was pretty funny.

Rapping on the office door with a melodical touch, his knock shakes the shitty little sign that reads 'Sgt.F.Abberline'. Jacob reminds himself to ask Freddy what the 'sgt' stands for. 

Smirking by the time he hears that familiar ho-hum, all-business tone float through the door, Jacob turns the handle.

The place is smaller than he remembers: a churchmouse would have a bigger pantry, and with a window the width of a tea-tray it lets in about the same amount of light. Every surface holds stacks of documents, books, and notes, but none of it could be called messy, all meticulously organised and marked. Looks like a headache to Jacob.

When he finally lays eyes on the man as he turns in his chair not two feet away, there’s no need for a window—Jacob’s grin lights up the room.

“Freddy!”

“ _Sergeant_. Nice to see you’ve found my office this time, Jacob.”

“You're still banging on about that?” He can tell Freddy’s pleased to see him, takes the two steps toward his desk and leans casually against it, slides the whole thing back an inch. “You requested my presence? Miss me?” 

“I did.” 

Jacob takes that as him being missed rather than in answer to the other.

Freddy’s reading spectacles slide down his nose as he motions to a pile of papers, narrowly misses knocking what looks like a tepid cup of tea. “Busy day. Busy month, actually, but I needn’t tell you that. You're recovering well?”

“Can’t complain.” Jacob humbles himself a little, genuinely grateful for the care. “Thanks for your help. Evie mentioned you gave more than your share in the search.”

“Yes, well. Glad you’re back. And, thanks to you and your sister’s mettle, we were able to shut down another warehouse in the illegal weapons trade. Sixteen crates of nitroglycerin.”

A proud little smile is returned the copper's way, though Jacob’s not proud of himself, it’s of Freddy.

“Find any of my stolen gear? Clothes? Weapons? A couple of lost fingers...?” He holds up his bandaged hand and grins when the man pales. 

“Good God, Frye!”

“Don’t worry. I’m just as nimble with eight as I am with ten.”

“That is far and away my least concern. What happened to you?”

“Eh, I’m sure you don’t want the gory details.” Freddy’s expression only looks more uneasy, if anything, so Jacob opts to go into a _very_ brief summary of the events. Thanks him again for shutting that shithole down, the latter not said in so many words.

Abberline’s a smart man, he takes it in stride—never asks too many questions, likely because he doesn’t want answers. That suits Jacob just fine. Freddy’s a good sort.

“And you’re quite sure you’re up to bringing in suspects? I’m sure Miss Frye would be amenable, if you’d rather—”

“— _I_ can handle it. Don’t worry, Freddy.” Jacob jerks his chin towards the towering piles on the desk to his side, notes a couple of them shift precariously. “What have you got for me?”

Abberline stares him down for a moment, as if internally debating whether to argue, but then pivots to his work, passes him a dossier.

“Harvey Hughes. A money lender in the City of London, specialises in charging extraordinary amounts of interest to those who can’t pay. He’s sent more than a few honest people to the poorhouse. I’d like him off the streets for good.”

Jacob takes the papers and flips through them; artist sketch, last-known whereabouts, affiliates and such. Freddy always does his homework, and does it well. 

_This_ scumbag will be in the nick in no time. 

“Hm. Looks like fun. Timeline?” 

“As soon as, really. Intel states he’s been spotted northeast of Ludgate Circus, close to the railway line. My men on patrol have reported sightings, but they’ve never managed to catch him. Whenever you do, I’ll be grateful.”

Jacob notes that Freddy uses the word ‘when’, not ‘if’, gives him a chipper smile, and the dossier back. 

He watches the sergeant straighten his papers and return the file into its specified slot, an eyebrow raised when Freddy turns back to meet him.

“So it’s been almost three weeks since last I saw you, and you’ve only _one_ bloke? Thought you said you were busy.”

“Your _sister_ managed the others, if you must know.”

Jacob looks surprised, doesn’t try to hide it. Was she carrying out bounty hunts while he was caged up? No, she can’t have. Must have been after, when he was recuperating, all that time he didn’t see her on the train. 

Life goes on, he supposes. 

Now Jacob’s back in the game, ready to step up. This Marvey guy, he’ll be the first in a long line of collars for Freddy. He’ll show them. The Templars think they can take him out? They have another think coming.

“Besides,” Freddy says, a bit huffily. “I saved this one for you.”

Stolen away from his introspection, Abberline’s pout is really quite fetching. Jacob leans down, cocking a brow. "For _me_? You are thoughtful, Freddy."

“Yes. Well.” The brass hems and haws, makes his mutton chops quiver. Adorable little man. “And it’s _Sergeant_.”

Jacob hums a sigh at the thought, watching him, trails those thoughts back to his own adorable fella wandering around the Strand, soon to be waiting for him. Jacob hops a seat up on the desk, plants himself comfortably with a rattle of cutlery on porcelain, a shuffle of papers, suddenly wistful. "You ever feel, _happy_ , Freddy? Like there's not a thing that could bring your mood down? Not a care in the world?"

“Frye. Are you drunk?”

"I've had a couple. But really—you're a man of the world." The copper scoffs, but it’s true. "Can I ask you something?"

He’s being watched, warily. “I sense you’ll ask me regardless of my answer, so. Go ahead.”

"How do you know..." Jacob looks at Freddy again during a brief pause, and suddenly realises _what_ he's about to ask, and to whom, but, _sod it_ , he's this far in now. "How do you know when you're in love?"

Freddy stares at him. Jacob stares back, kicking his feet a little.

“Well,” Freddy says finally, sounding pained. “Your chest feels full at the sight of her. As if your world is reduced to her smile, the clever things she says. When you trust her with your heart, and in return, she safeguards your soul.”

Jacob mulls that over. Sounds like something Evie would quote, honestly, but he knows Abberline wouldn't pull his leg, can see in his eyes the man means every word. 

More importantly, what it means in regards to Jacob’s feelings towards Teddy. 

"Thanks." 

“Hmm.” Freddy rustles more papers on his desk. “My advice, don’t do anything rash.” 

"Me? Rash?" Jacob smirks, watching Freddy purposefully not look his way. "Do you know me at all?"

Freddy just sighs. “That’s why I gave the advice.”

He can see past the cynical brow raised to his friend underneath, knows he enjoys their little chats just as much as Jacob does. Though he’ll likely never admit it.

Hopping off the desk with vigour, he quickly catches a stack of papers from tipping over, shoving them back into place.

“Well, I hate to leave you but I must _dash_. You’re not the only one with a full plate today.” And it’s quite the meal he has waiting for him.

“Jacob.”

“ _Hm_?”

“Do try and bring Hughes in _alive_ , won't you? I really can’t bring another corpse to trial.”

Reaching for the door handle, he shoots a grin over his shoulder. “But on the bright side, I’m fairly certain you’d win?”

“Hardly reassuring.”

Jacob leaves the man with a mock salute as he rolls out the door.

That’s business sorted with any luck—and now, he’s due for pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Surprise!Freddy appeared! 
> 
> So... how'd you like the date 😏
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Queen's weather** : Victorian slang for a beautiful day of sunshine. The phrase came about due to Queen Victoria almost always having fine weather whenever she appeared in public. Apparently. Sounds more like good PR to me
> 
>  **Jacob's new togs** : he's wearing the Gunslinger Coat outfit in steel grey colours, for anyone interested
> 
>  **Minted** : rich, loaded with cash
> 
>  **Make a better marksman** : in-game, the Gunslinger Coat increases firearms damage. It's a sly nod to that mechanic, ha
> 
>  **The Lamb & Flag pub**: an utterly adorable establishment situated in Covent Garden (seriously, go look at it in Google Streetview). Becoming a pub in 1772, it is still one today, and is said to have been a favourite of Charles Dickens, hence him suggesting Jacob ~~go on a date~~ have a pint there
> 
>  **Chock-a-block** : absolutely packed to the brim, full up
> 
>  **Collywobbles** : a feeling in the tummy caused by nervousness, bless
> 
>  **Punters** : customers/patrons
> 
>  **The Channel** : referring to the English Channel, the body of water between the south of England and northern France
> 
>  **Prigged** : Victorian slang for pick-pocketed
> 
>  **Mettle** : someone's strong ability and determination when completing something difficult. A staunch unwillingness to give up in finishing a task
> 
>  **Another think coming** : this phrase is the original from the middle of the 19th century, as opposed to the more modern 'another thing coming'. The latter probably originated as a result of confusion upon hearing the original phrase, people mishearing the 'k'. The more you know!
> 
>  **Obligatory Upsetting Author's Note** : the real-life Freddy Abberline lost his wife of six weeks to tuberculosis in 1868, just prior to the events in the game. Oof. We are keeping this as canon for our Freddy, poor boy


	13. open hand or closed fist would be fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say, remember all those NSFW tags up top we haven’t covered yet? Now might be a good time to revisit that list.

Sparking up the gas line, the ring floods with light. 

The entire cavernous place is empty. Only Jacob inside, with a single Rook guarding the door on the out.

Bob Topping owes him a favour—or several, considering the sterling the Frye twins bring to his coffers on a near-weekly basis. The bookie had a match scheduled but Jacob persuaded him to postpone it, make it happen a little _later_ in the day. Thanks to Jacob's charm the fight club isn't due open until seven tonight, now. Gives him ample time, a few hours at least for the fun they’re about to have, bouncing on his toes at the thought. 

He cannot wait to see Ted’s face at the sight of all this. 

And Jacob fully intends to _kiss_ that face: pull the man close and mix up their breath, suck that sweet bottom lip, tug a hand through his hair.

This attraction isn’t one-sided: he’s known since the day he walked Teddy home and then dropped an impulsive pound in his landlady's purse. What feels like years of talking—back in the cells, and the train, and today, in the pub—every moment he’s shared with Ted, it’s only served to cement his hope in this man; in knowing his own desire, identifying the longing in his bones. 

Jacob trusts him. 

He can do this—leave himself unprotected, let Ted take his walls apart piece by piece. The thought is a comfortable one. Jacob’s no longer that desperate boy from Crawley, chasing a forbidden feast yet accepting scraps: he intends to drink deeply, and sample every plate, and make as free with this man as Teddy will allow.

He _wants_ this.

Though before anything so intimate can unfurl, he’s come here with a goal in mind: Ted sorely needs teaching some basics in self defence, and Jacob’s more than up to the task.

Not that it won’t be intimate, time spent in the ring always _is_. Two people in close quarters, no one else to interfere, eyes fixed on each other’s every movement. Trying to guess what the other is thinking, is _wanting_ to achieve.

Not unlike fucking, probably.

He’s already picturing Ted’s sweet frown, his cool disinterest at the proposal, but that only adds to the fun. Wear him down slowly, build him back up—by the time Jacob’s finished with him, the man will be a master in the art of defence.

Or at the least, a very capable novice.

Jacob claps his hands together, rubbing chalk on both. He’s bandaged up his right a little tighter, a little thicker for protection. Not that he plans on using it, mind. 

He’s had his sling off for the better part of a week, although his shoulder still aches in the mornings. Can’t do too much lifting, or raise it very high. That doesn’t bode well for tonight’s Elliotson job, but he’ll work through it. Same goes for his ribs: just as long as he doesn’t twist himself too far, push himself _too_ hard, it’ll be alright.

Ducking under the top rope Jacob steps out onto the canvas, gleaming at the feel underfoot. He’s missed being here, missed _this_. He feels _alive_ in the ring: the spring of the floor, the burn of the ropes, the blinding of the lights.

He’s been bare-knuckle since he was fourteen. The Red Lion in Copthorne had a makeshift ring in its cellar. It was cramped, and always smelt like a stray moggy had died in the corner two weeks before every session, but it served its purpose well. Jacob finally had a place to use his muscle, since he wasn’t allowed any during the schooling his father gave him and Evie. 

He felt wasted, and useless. 

Something he _knew_ he was good at, ignored in favour of preparation and academic smarts. 

Not so in the ring.

All of that, plus beating the shit out of someone is bloody good fun. Especially when it’s a cocky tosspot that needs putting in his place. Jacob’s laid a fair few of those down and out in his time.

Patting the sides of his thighs to knock off the excess chalk, he leaves behind handprints that he momentarily mourns: his brand new trousers at once needing a wash. He sighs. Still, they look great, especially from the rear (he inspected that view in the backroom mirror), so how can Ted resist this jam, really?

He checks there’s no chalk dust on his bare stomach, bare chest, straightens out his necklace. His black eye is all but gone so that’s grand, most of his cuts healed up nice too—the stitches in his arm are uncovered, but they look pretty nifty on show. Reaches up and twists a strand of hair to fall down the side of his forehead _just_ so. 

Right. Ready.

By the time he hears the main door creak, Jacob’s worked up a bit of a sweat shadowboxing in the ring: getting some of his game back, heart-pumping faster. 

He gazes out into the darkness beneath the stands, eyes someone moving slowly through the shadows. Tugs on the wraps around his hands, tightening them.

“Right on time, I see.”

“Frye. What the hell is this.”

Teddy sounds bemused, caught off-guard.

A thrill sparks through Jacob himself at the sight, that Ted’s finally here in the flesh. 

Jacob squints his way, letting his eyes adjust to the dim outside the ring, spying a rather fetching flush riding high in his mate's cheeks—he’s flustered as fuck, and it’s _delightful_. 

He was expecting this sort of resistance anyway, putting on a bit of a show as he strides in a circle, cock-of-the-walk with arms outstretched, a guileless grin.

“A boxing ring.”

Teddy just raises one underwhelmed brow, folds both lean arms across his chest in silent protest. 

He’s cute when he’s nettled.

“I brought you here, to teach you self defence.” Ted’s other brow shoots up to join the first, Jacob tilts his head. “You’re in dire need.”

“Oh, _you_ …” Teddy raises a mulish finger, jabs the air in the general direction of Jacob’s abdominals. If only he were closer. “Cheeky fecker.”

“ _Now_ , now. Save that fire for when you’re in the ring.” He’s trying to keep his delight in check, and that’s well-failed already. “Come on in. The water’s warm.”

The bloke looks as if he’s grinding his teeth. “I’m fine here, thanks.”

Hm, playing hard to get. 

Jacob tries a different approach, sliding on a pitiful look. Always works wonders on Abberline.

“ _Teddy_ … I got all dressed up for the occasion.”

“Dressed down, more like.” 

But Ted looks to be tracing his shoulders with hungry eyes, unable to keep his focus from sliding over Jacob’s bare chest, and that’s his first mistake.

Taking a few unhurried and deliberate steps towards him, Jacob gets a better view of Theo as he leaves the intensity of the harsh lights, dips into the shadows where he lives. 

The man looks ruffled, the kind you get from walking around London’s streets on a hot afternoon with very few places to go. His hair isn’t as perfect as it was in the pub, and the hat’s wonky. He’s one more button undone on his shirt than before, unfairly baring his throat, and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. 

Jacob comes to lean on the top rope, their eyes level with the height of the ring in his lazy repose. 

“Will you not do me this _one_ , favour?”

Ted swallows, hard. 

“Why.”

He feels a little treacherous exploiting this to get his way, but he’s absolutely not lying.

“Because I care for you. I want you safe.”

Something changes in Teddy’s face then. Like a flash of lightning on a darkened moor, he nearly flinches, mouth opening wordlessly, then snapping shut. Looks away quickly, but not quickly enough: Jacob can see the fierce, untamed grin split across his face like wildfire.

And that’s his cue.

Ducking under the top rope, he hops down off the platform, carding fingers through his hair to slick it back. Teddy’s looking less and less guarded with each passing step, his facade crumbling the closer Jacob gets, until he’s standing right in his space. 

Their toes nearly touch.

“So… what d'you say?” 

Jacob’s simmering smile frames the question, looking Ted up and down. The fella’s trying damned hard to appear unaffected, and failing at every turn: this close, Jacob can see his pupils dilate.

“Let me show you how to floor a guy, learn something.” His voice is down to a low murmur, leaning in so close he can smell Ted’s faded aftershave. 

“Then afterwards, we can have a bit of _fun_.”

Teddy flicks him a _look_ , slow and wicked, like he’s considering all of the things that ‘ _fun_ ’ might mean. 

“I’m listening.”

“Hm.” Pleased, Jacob casually reaches up without warning or prompt, flicks lazily at the topmost button of Ted’s waistcoat. Already thoroughly enjoying himself.

“First off: I don’t think we’ll be needing _this_.” 

Seems like Ted is too, if the strangled little sound he makes when Jacob’s fingers graze his open collar is any indication. “...was feelin’ a bit, overdressed.”

Jacob puts on an understanding nod, “And we _can’t_ have you feeling left out.” He’s watching the man undo every button, gaze lingering at Teddy’s waistband for perhaps… longer than necessary, until he snaps out of it, trying for _stern_.

“Now. _Take it off_.” 

Ted’s breath hitches, just a little. Enough for Jacob to see the pulse _jump_ in his throat, and then he’s shucking off the waistcoat like it’s burned him. 

Hm. _Interesting_. 

Jacob motions for his flat cap next, trailing two fingers along the brim, and just resisting the urge to tease through his curls. 

"This can go also," he purrs, gratified to see his bloke colouring pink. "Making _me_ feel left out."

And with that Jacob’s tweaking the brim, flings it away without a second thought. It lands somewhere behind them, claimed by the shadows. 

“Put yours back on, and we can both look the fool.”

Jacob smirks, heads back to the ring, expecting him to follow; two can take the piss and he’s pulling out his best-Ted impression again.

“ _Cheeky fecker_.” 

He hops up on the platform, raising the top two ropes for the man to slip under.

“Come on, you _bodach_. Haven’t got all day.” 

" _Haven’t you_ ,” Ted mutters murderously under his breath, practically on Jacob’s heels despite the tone.

Teddy moves confidently into the centre of the ring, limp barely noticeable now, looking boldly around the hollow space. As if the nervous energy uncoiling from his limbs can be solved by a patina of bravado.

“I want it on record, I did not agree to… whatever this is. _Boxing_.”

Jacob’s seen this sort of thing a hundred times over; guy trying to _look_ like he’s in control, when in actuality he’s bricking it. He doesn’t want Ted _scared_ , that’s the last thing he wants: tries to tone things down with an easy smile, arms loose at his sides, his face the picture of sincerity. 

“I _swear_. Whatever happens here, it was entirely my doing.” 

Teddy just gives him a steady look as Jacob pulls some scrap cloth from his pocket. He smirks and sidles closer to take up one of Ted’s hands, begin wrapping the gauze carefully around his knuckles.

“You’ll be fighting off hordes of Blighters in no time.”

“You realise that’s _exactly_ what I’d like to avoid.”

“And with this, you will.” 

Ted’s watching him, he can feel it, but Jacob only twists the wrap more gently around his thin wrist, reveling in the chance to touch him so freely.

He can’t help trailing little circles with his thumb over Teddy’s wrist as he goes, a reminder of their time in the pub, but now they can do as they wish: no prying eyes to condemn them in here, no judgement. 

Ted seems to be thinking the same, fingers twitching at the touch. Like he’s fighting not to grab Jacob’s hand, drag him in and beg for more. 

The thought of Ted _begging_ strikes a match in Jacob’s guts, pours kerosene on the eager flame that’s licking up his spine. Not yet, _not yet_ , he reminds himself, plenty of time for all that.

Jacob tucks the end of the material away, leaving off by trailing his fingers up the man’s arm and walking behind.

Biting the fat of his lip, he glances down at Teddy’s tidy little arse, _stuffed_ into those trousers right in front of him, no remorse in his ogling.

“Let’s begin, with the _perfect_ stance.” Jacob taps his boot against Ted’s right heel, itching to grab his waist and twist him into position. “Right foot back, left foot forward, turn your torso at a slight angle away from your attacker.”

Ted grunts at the directive, sliding his feet into something vaguely reminiscent of a younger, moodier Jacob, poked and prodded into learning footwork. 

First order done, Jacob’s rethinking his earlier want, breathing deep, allowing himself just a _little_ leeway. He’s caressing the air outside of Ted’s hip, chiding himself to _stop fucking overthinking this_ and just get to it—he does, curving his palm to the sharp plane of a hipbone. 

God. 

Jacob grips him more fully then, goes all in because why the hell not, fingers pressing in the soft worn feel of Teddy’s shirt. Takes another step until their bodies are nearly touching, front to back. 

He gives himself a moment to appreciate this before dipping his head, breathing low and hot against Teddy’s throat. 

“ _Angle your hips_.”

Teddy shudders at the heat of his breath, at the fingers now holding him still. Jacob can't help himself with that sort of reaction: closing the inch gap between them, he fits his own hips up snug behind Ted’s.

It's a chuffing miracle that he isn't hard yet; able to feel his dick pressing against Teddy’s arse.

Twice more like that and he'll become a bloody saint.

It's all those years of training himself _not_ to, in the ring: a small space crammed with a bunch of half-naked, sweaty men grunting and grabbing at you? Kindling for a younger Jacob. An odd duck like him would have been beaten bloody, or worse, had anyone ever caught on, so he forced it out of his system when in the arena. Self-preservation and all that.

Granted, this is a very different situation, but he's making himself play by the same rules.

Lingering close by Teddy’s ear, Jacob slides mischievous hands down the outside of Ted's trembling thighs with each mention.

"Keep your left foot _loose_ , free… your right should be dragged, never leaving the floor."

He's not heard Ted exhale since the moment he stepped in his space. 

Jacob smiles, knowing he's being a bit of a git but loving it anyway, his lips still a hair's breadth from the nape of Teddy’s neck, _he smells incredible_.

"That way no one can knock you off balance, trip you up."

He's bereft to do so but the show must go on (and if he stays here much longer, there’ll be a standing ovation). Steps away from Teddy’s back, cool air rushing in his stead and Jacob _sees_ the tension run off Ted's shoulders, hears the man breathe out, finally. 

“So glad I’ve you, to teach me how to _stand_ ,” Teddy mutters, regaining himself, but there’s no heat in it.

Walking slowly around to the front, eyeing his churlish student and how his stance measures up, Jacob meets his glare with a smirk, completely back in control, tone unaffected. 

“Elbows down. Hands up. Mouth _shut_.” 

Just as with his earlier command, Jacob can tell that Teddy _likes_ it: a healthy flush creeping up his pale cheeks, but the fella does as he’s been told. 

Jacob licks his lips.

“Next, _arms_. Head goes behind your fists, chin slightly down. Eyeline sits just over your hands.”

Once again, Ted complies like the able but surly student he is, so Jacob cuts him some slack. 

“Like so.” Walking his man through each basic pose, Jacob illustrates the anatomy of a hit: strike, recoil, block. Ted solemnly looks to be taking it in, and Jacob feels a pang of pleasure being heeded, listened to. 

Raising his arms in a mirror of Ted’s beginner stance, he smirks wide knowing they’ve finally reached his favourite bit, grinding his heel on the canvas.

“Now, put to use what I’ve taught you: try to score a hit.”

Teddy only curls his lip, juts his chin like a dare. “Come here, then.”

Loving the fire of Ted’s answer, Jacob does just that.

“You won’t last two minutes with me, Neill.” 

He is, of course, _not_ going to punch Teddy, but takes one menacing step forward anyway, _looking_ like perhaps he might. 

“Won’t I.”

Big talk aside, his man looks a trifle shaken at Jacob’s slow advance, fists up. Stepping deftly to the side, he forces Teddy to stay on guard. 

Jacob’s light on his feet. Relishing the feeling of being back in his element. 

“This lesson is for your own good.” 

Teddy shifts to block him and snorts.

“ _For your own good_ , he says, threatening my life.”

Jacob laughs, golden. Teddy’s ill-natured grousing will never lose its charm. 

“Maybe I’ll go dig up my nan, she’d hit harder anyway.”

Ted narrows his eyes, stepping towards him with that jaw set stubborn. Jacob _thinks_ he can detect the hint of a smile. 

“When you’re done talkin’ shite, come here and get this over with.”

Jacob takes a step to the side, forcing Teddy to cover his flank.

“As sharp as a marble, Ted.” He grins, feet skimming the canvas. “You do this often?”

The bloke finally drops his guard, long enough to take an erratic swing in the general vicinity of Jacob. 

Lovely effort, but missed by a mile. 

Jacob’s turn to scoff, goading, “I’m _here_ , not Croydon.”

“Act like a prick, it won’t make yours bigger,” Teddy carps, clearly beginning to crack—there’s a bead of sweat at his temple, another disappearing down his collar. 

Jacob laughs again, head buzzing.

“I’d agree with you, but then we’d both be wrong.” He moves closer, pulling his hands in tight in case his student decides to bop him one in close quarters. 

Nearer now, Jacob feints a sharp jab, as though he’s going for Teddy’s left side. The man’s wound as tense as a spring, knocks his arm away with a growl. 

Not _quite_ what he was going for.

Making an effort not to sound defeatist this early on, Jacob resorts to something he had stuffed in his back pocket. Just in case. 

“Mate, you’re going to have to fight dirty.”

Teddy cocks a sudden, interested brow, and Jacob reviews his statement, adding: “Trip your opponent, a knee to the balls, eye-gouging. _Nothing_ is off limits when you’re defending yourself.”

Teddy’s listening, looks to be reevaluating his approach: it occurs to Jacob that if this doesn’t work, then Ted’s likely to throw in the towel, if that eye-roll and growl beneath his breath are any sign of things to come.

Jacob sweetens the deal. “Land a hit, using _any_ method, and your lesson’s over.”

“That a promise?”

“On my honour.” Jacob matches Teddy’s smirk, gearing up for an attack.

“Wonder how much that’s worth,” Ted deadpans, fists back up again. 

He makes a fairly competent lunge, commendable in its audacity, but Jacob’s expecting it. Not two seconds after he’s dodging another swipe, stepping widely to the right as Ted goes sailing on by. Jacob could have easily tripped him up, or landed his own punch, but he’s got to give it to the man—Teddy’s doing well for a first-timer.

“More like that, Ted, and you may live long enough to bleed out.”

Teddy scoffs and tries again without pause, but Jacob shoves back, hassling him with his own defences lowered. Hoping it’s a tantalising enough target to earn another good swing like the first: he’s already finding himself rather partial to that urgent vigour on display.

“You know, you’re not half bad.” Jacob’s genuine in his praise, and Teddy’s dark brows raise a tad, apparently surprised by the compliment. Jacob wants to tease, say he’s _not half good_ , _either_ , but he can’t quite bring himself to knock the smile off that fine face.

“Then again, you _do_ have an excellent teacher.”

Teddy grins, teeth bared. “If he does say so himself.”

Jacob laughs, too busy watching that pretty mug opposite to see it coming; a quick elbow to the face that cracks right on Jacob’s nose, at the same time his leg’s kicked out from under him, the combination sends him toppling to the floor.

Maybe he should have been paying more attention to Ted’s _hands_ instead of his face.

Jacob drops with a harsh _thud_ on the canvas, totally knocked for six. Lands on his ribs, sends ‘em throbbing—and his muted cry of pain isn’t lost on Teddy, as his mate’s looming expression slides from victory to regret. 

Jacob decides to ham it up, get Teddy back, suddenly sucking in a pained breath and channeling that hurt. Squeezing his eyes shut, he sits up with a gasp, hand over his nose and playing the bloke like a finely-strung fiddle. 

“ _Ted_ … you _broke_ my _nose_!”

“Oh, _feck_ ,” Ted gasps from somewhere above, and then he’s thumping to his knees at Jacob’s side, clever hands now flailing uselessly. “ _Christ_ —sorry, Jacob—” 

Jacob now has both hands over his face, covering his mouth, nose _and_ hiding the biggest grin, milking the moment for all it’s worth. 

“You should be, dirty bastard.”

“ _Shite_ , mate. I’m so sorry.”

He sees Teddy’s face fall even further, makes him begin to feel a _little_ villainous; he didn’t think Ted would mourn so much. Jacob decides to blow the gaff, show his hand, literally. 

He lifts them away to reveal nothing but a coy smile and a very _un_ -broken nose, fluttering his fingers like a hammy street magician.

“Just kidding! You couldn’t break a _sweat_ , let alone my nose.”

“ _You_ —feckin’ _cock_ —” Ted yelps, betrayed, and shoves him; sweet mouth falling open as Jacob only laughs heartily in response. Theo instead throws a wounded punch to his bicep, landing lighter than a taxman’s conscience. 

“ _The look_ —on your face—” Jacob's absolutely still laughing, albeit breathlessly. Ted gives him another, more lackluster shove as he sits back on his haunches, with quite the handsome pout, he must say.

Jacob sighs after a moment, dragging a hand through his tousled hair, bringing himself back down to earth, “Oh _, Theo_ … you’re a card.” And pins his mate with a lit grin.

“I’m gonna break your nose for real,” warns Ted in a husky voice, thumping to the canvas beside him with a huff.

Close together like this, Jacob can easily see there’s no true heat in those pitch-dark eyes. Ted’s own attempt to keep his ire stoked is failing; and Jacob decides to grab the fire bucket. 

“You know, I wasn't kidding. You keep going at it like that, you’ll be a professional in no-time.” He commends, tilting his chin loftily on Ted’s behalf, and beginning to unwrap his own wrists.

Teddy just slants him a sideways grin, shakes his head. "We both know I’m hardly meant for the ring.”

That's fair, to each their own. 

"You at least fared better than my first attempt at, _oh_ , fourteen. Was all over the place. Tripped over my own feet, fell out the ring, almost knocked over a lantern and set the whole place alight; a right shambles." Jacob smirks at the memory, making short work of the last of his wraps and tossing them on the floor nearby. 

He glances down at his damaged hand, having shed all but the thinnest strip of material. Now that the true extent of what's _not_ there is fully visible, Jacob sighs, knowing he'll probably be back to that novice shit… likely never be able to fight properly again. 

At least, not the way he could, before.

He sees Teddy plucking at a stray thread on his shirtsleeve, watching Jacob from the corner of his eye. Clears his throat, soft. 

“Does it hurt?”

He appreciates the ask, the tenderness of Theo’s words feel like a caress along that very hand. “I’ve grown used to it.” That's not really an answer yes or no, but Jacob doesn't feel like garnering sympathy, or inflicting the need for it upon his mate. 

Turns to him with a smile instead. 

"Since now you know where I fight, you should come watch my first match back." 

He reaches for Teddy's hands, starts unravelling the material tied around his bony knuckles. Holding Ted’s fingers in one, while he delicately unbinds the wrap with the other.

Feels Teddy watching him, wide gaze on Jacob’s hands over his, the easy movement of his wrists. “Soon?”

He chuckles, "Most assuredly _not_." Catching Ted’s eye. "No harm meant, Theo, but if _you_ can knock me down, _I've_ got no chance." 

Jacob doesn't add that he was staring into Teddy’s eyes before the elbow whacked him in the face, and listening to the deep, heavy breaths being pushed past his pretty lips, all of which put him off his game… and he's absolutely _not_ staring at them now.

Teddy just drops his look to their twined hands, where Jacob holds him, still—stroking his fingers lightly alongside Theo’s wrist, peeling back the wrap to expose soft skin, a speckling of dark hair up his arm. 

“Do you _know_ ,” Ted murmurs, thickly, “how much I want you.”

Jacobs stills, watching as Teddy looks up, finding him again. 

Feels like his heart is in his mouth.

“No.” 

Shakes his head, slow, gaze never leaving Theo’s, their hands much the same, still held together.

The _thud_ of his heartbeat sounds too loud in his ears. 

“Show me.”

Ted’s eyes darken, leaning in, and then Jacob’s closing his because there’s a hand cupping his jaw, and a shuddered exhale, and Teddy’s lips on his: soft and sweet, and _shockingly_ tender.

Behind his eyelids, the world trembles and _bursts_ like a ripe bruised fruit, juice dripping down his chin as he moves his hands up to hold, to _feel_ Theo’s body now he’s so much nearer.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss again; wet and warm and fucking _perfect_ as Jacob shifts to his knees just like Teddy has, drawing a hand up to hold Ted’s face, angling their open mouths to slide together. 

He’s _never_ felt so alive.

“Call me _Theo_ again,” Ted whispers, hand fisting in his hair. 

And Jacob longs to be kissing him still, hates even a moment of them parted—but this new piece of knowledge is _quite_ enlightening. 

“But _Theo_ ,” he groans, feels the man shudder and gasp at the sound, grinning in the thought that Teddy's wanted it, wanted to hear him moaning his name, “What if I don’t want to, _Theo..._?”

Jacob’s hair is pulled tighter, both of Ted's hands now coursing through as their kiss turns deep, and filthy. Every slick of tongues, every raw and desperate moan feels like a victory, like they’ve bloody well earnt it; panting into each other’s lips with abandon.

Sliding both hands down Teddy’s back, tracing the lean body he’s been coveting for what seems an age; Jacob’s rucking up his fella’s shirt, a physical render of his frustration that he wants to _tear_ apart, to touch bare skin, have it pressed flush against his own.

“ _Christ_ ,” Ted whimpers against Jacob’s cheek, arching into his hands, their bare stomachs pressing together. Clearly as desperate for this as Jacob is and it makes him wild.

 _He can’t absolve you now_ , he thinks, smug, and fucking on fire with the thought of it, that he’s _finally_ found someone who wants to do this with him; _a bloke_ , a fucking brilliant bloke at that. And no amount of laws or lectures, dangerous consequences or fear-mongering articles thrown his way could persuade him otherwise, that this isn’t what he wants with all his soul.

Jacob’s hands travel further down, over the dip of Teddy’s lower back, thumbs trailing little circles over the sweet dimples there, before he’s gripping Ted’s belt and sliding a hand in his trousers to splay over his bare arse. 

He sucks in a greedy breath— _just as tight as he’d imagined_ —and squeezes to earn another thick moan pressed into his neck. 

The sound drives him crazy, and Jacob’s prick strains against his trousers; desperate, wants to fuck Teddy, _be_ fucked.

“ _Fuck, Theo_ — _I want you_.”

“ _Have me, then_.”

Teddy’s growl is what Jacob’s dreams are made of, thoroughly enjoying the manhandling—bites his lip and grins as Theo brings their hips together, his bloke's as hard as a brick.

 _Hello, Mister Neill_.

Looking down Jacob’s eyes trace the sight, hungry and _delighted_ before dragging his loose hand in between them, going straight for the front of Theo’s tight trousers and the sizeable bulge visible against the material. 

He grabs a hearty handful and the _noise_ Teddy makes turns Jacob goosefleshed all over. 

Able to see the beautiful deep brown of Theo's eyes _so_ clearly now, the plump of his parted lips, levelling breaths past them as Jacob roughly rubs his palm up and down Teddy’s cock, barely able to believe he’s doing this but enthralled all the same.

“ _S’that good_?” Jacob drawls, smirking, knowing the answer.

Ted’s bracing a hand on his chest, utterly wrecked and gasping already. Rocking first into Jacob’s splayed palm on his arse, then the one cupping him at the front. 

“ _Feck_ yes, _Jacob_ —”

The way Teddy says his name will always be a gift, he makes Jacob feel wanted, _adored_ , even through a broken cry. It's how he’s always wished it would feel, instead of berated and bothered.

In a rare moment of clarity, Jacob stops what he’s doing and shifts, pulling Ted along with him. Sits down on his arse, lying flat on his back on the hard canvas and tugging Teddy atop him to straddle his hips. He grabs Ted’s collar and drags him in for a kiss, beginning to fumble open his man’s belt.

Theo’s gasping into his mouth with the touch at his stomach, twines desperate fingers through Jacob’s hair, clever lips at his jaw, his throat; sucks a bruising kiss into his neck. It floods a pulse of heat to his aching dick, nearly arching off the floor as the metal of the buckle rattles free.

His thoughts are of nothing but Teddy and an urgent need to have more of him as the bloke’s soft little nips down his throat keep returning to that _one_ spot. Jacob’s grinning at the wicked thought of it, that he’ll have the damning evidence of their time together branded onto his skin for all to see.

As soon as he’s physically able Jacob tugs open Ted's fly, sends a greedy hand wrapping around the lengthy cock already falling out onto his stomach.

“ _Jacob—_ ” Teddy chokes, and whatever else he was going to say is lost as he ruts shamelessly into Jacob’s fist, dick twitching as he fucks him hard and fast, and _God this is incredible_. 

He’s grinning like the devil as he leaves off for but a moment, grasps both sides of Ted’s trousers and drags them further down, baring everything above Teddy’s thighs for better access. 

Spitting into his hand, Jacob takes up his bloke’s cock and gets back to it. 

" _Fuck me, Theo—yes, fuck me—_ "

Fiercely whispered encouragement makes Teddy shudder and Jacob smirk, his fella’s falling further apart with every delicious stroke, and the wonder, the _need_ in his face sets Jacob aflame. It’s nothing he’s not done for himself, the mechanics are the same, but with Teddy it’s different, it’s _different_ , he’s _bloody marvelous_.

" _So_ good, my dove _—so good_."

Taking advantage, Jacob’s pulling his gorgeous fella in closer to lick at his jaw, nose through the short hair by his ear, dig his eye teeth into the lobe; lavish him with every ounce of attention he’s capable of.

“ _Jacob_ , _yeah_ —so feckin’ good, _darlin’_ —”

" _That's good? Is that_ — _tell me it's good_ , _Theo_."

“ _So_ good, you’re _perfect_ —”

The sweet, slick sounds when Ted fucks his fist, sobs his name are loud in the middle of the ring, makes Jacob groan with every pull: his bloke’s so responsive, so goddamn hungry for _him_ , Jacob Frye. King of the Rooks. He feels like king of all London right now, with this man in his heart and his hand, with Ted leaking thick and hot against his belly. 

“ _Theo_ … _you’re fuckin' grand.._.”

Jacob wants him to finish on his stomach, has thought about this far too much over the past few days. Mix their sweat and cum together for a sweet end that'll surpass every one of Jacob’s dirty dreams of how this moment would play out.

He's soon trailing a thrill of a grin across Teddy’s cheek thinking of it, brushing lips higher, kissing where he knows Ted’s laughter lines appear whenever Jacob makes him smile—he adores seeing him _happy_. 

It's a simple thing, but he'll be first to admit, he's a man of simple pleasures.

Like making his bloke come so hard he forgets his own name.

He owns nothing but a single-track mind on the road to Ted's best wank yet—tugs tight on his man's hair, angles Teddy’s head _just so_ that Jacob can whisper through waiting lips, rough and sweet in his bitten-red ear.

" _Finish on me_."

Ted stutters and stills, long enough to gasp a strangled noise that could be his name—clawing at his hair and dragging them together for a sloppy kiss, teeth clacking when Ted loses himself, comes all over Jacob’s fist.

Oh boy, he wishes everyone paid him heed like that.

Finds himself grinning as Theo spends messily across his stomach, keeps stroking him through it and hanging on every twitch, every breathlessly mouthed word—most of them _Jacob_ —from Teddy’s gorgeous lips while he coats his belly just as he'd asked. 

" _That's the ticket_."

Ted all but collapses against Jacob's chest, still and limp, heaving breaths levelling out into something quiet, sated. _Happy_.

Jacob couldn’t be more pleased with himself if he tried.

Carding his unstickied hand through Teddy’s mussed up hair, his man's already tucked in at his neck, hiding his face. 

Jacob grins into that dishevelled mop.

_"That lesson's on me."_

Teddy laughs with his lips at Jacob’s throat, soft and joyful.

“ _Mm_. Sure is.” 

Leaves him with a slow, messy kiss to draw back, bliss scrawled all over his fucked-out face. 

With their eyes on each other, Jacob trails fingers down Teddy’s cheek, under his chin, cups the other side of his face to stroke his thumb gently over a sharp cheekbone. 

Marvelling that he's allowed to do this, to stare at Teddy, appreciate him how he's ached to do. Wonders if it’s been the same for him: Ted looks almost glassy-eyed at the focus spent on him, nudging into Jacob’s touch, catching his fingers in a kiss, ducking his gaze. 

“ _When I came to say goodbye on the train_ ,” he murmurs, “I was going to ask. I _wanted_ to...”

Jacob raises a brow, still caressing small circles over Teddy’s soft skin, trying to recall… _oh_ , when Jacob offered to walk him home.

Theo drags his fingers over Jacob’s, hand warm across his face, half-hiding in his palm. “ _Wanted to suck you_.”

Bloody _hell_.

He’s barely recovered from _that_ revelation when Theo’s sinking back down, pushing Jacob flat onto the canvas for greedy, starving kisses that are graciously accepted, tonguing his way into Jacob’s mouth. 

“ _Jacob_ — _can_ I suck you? _Please tell me I can suck your cock_.”

Oh fuck, _oh_ _Christ_.

" _Oh God, yes please_."

Jacob’s gagging for it, wants this man's tongue wrapped round him like a maypole, wants Teddy to give him everything he's got and then some, he's been ready for him for far too long.

Ted splits from their kiss and Jacob’s prick seems to _know_ , still straining against his trousers and there has to be cum on them now but sod it, even going so far as to wipe his own sullied hand there. He doesn’t have a mind to care, it’s gone on holiday for the fortnight right where his fella's heading.

Theo slows on his way down his chest, swirling his tongue over Jacob’s ink, scraping teeth across his nipple. Sucks a teasing, messy kiss over his abdominals, uncaring of the cooling spunk and lapping him up, makes Jacob shudder.

Ted’s hands are busy on his belt, making short work of the buckle before sliding down, past Jacob’s hips to unbutton his fly, nipping kisses across the tender skin at the top of his waistband. 

“ _Wanted to do this_ , since I _saw_ you,” Teddy whispers, dragging down his trousers enough to free his leaking cock, with enough hunger in those dark eyes that Jacob believes him.

Christ… _really_? 

Teddy settles himself between his muscled thighs, tensed with anticipation, absolutely _not_ trembling while his fella sets up shop. 

Jacob’s buying absolutely _everything_ he’s selling.

Curling a hand around the meat of each thigh, squeezing at his arse, Teddy’s look is one of devout adoration. 

“You’re bloody gorgeous, _darlin’_.” 

And Jacob can't believe what he’s hearing, _seeing_ , never wants to forget any of it.

His bloke’s nosing through the dark hair at the softest part of Jacob’s belly, down to where it curls thickest before parting his lips, tongue flicking out as he looks up lazily through his lashes. 

He’s on the precipice, and Ted’s going to shove him right over. 

“ _Jacob_ ,” he murmurs, tasting the head of his cock, and then he’s swallowing him down with a desperate moan. 

Jacob makes such a noise he’s certain the entire south of England hears him. 

But in truth, it’s only them, only he and Teddy, and London could fall around them a _thousand_ times before he moves from the searing mouth taking him in.

" _Ted_ —ah, _Theo_ — _yes_.”

Theo’s hand slips around, begins leading his lips _up_ — _down_ —those lean fingers working in tandem along his whole length and Jacob feels that tongue on his cock even hotter, wetter, spit already dripping down, spilling over Teddy’s knuckles. 

The sight makes Jacob _ache_.

“ _Yes, don't stop—never stop, please_ —oh, _fuck me_ —”

Jacob’s suddenly wishing he didn't talk so much when Teddy lifts his mouth from his slicked-up prick and licks his smirking lips.

“ _Don’t plan to stop_.”

Shoots him a cheeky fucking _wink_ before carrying on with a soft groan, like all he’s ever wanted is to drive Jacob mad with desire.

Ted sounds ragged and _goddamn_ _ravenous_ , and Jacob’s grin dissolves once again into open-mouthed gasping, desperately moaning into the empty air of the arena, eyes shut tight and mouth wide open, letting himself _have this_.

Not in a hundred years did he ever expect to be doing this, _here_ , but every single future round he fights in this ring, _any_ _ring_ for that matter… it’s all he’s going to be thinking about. 

Might not make his odds particularly favourable.

Ted’s building back up to a practised rhythm, a hungry ease like he’s done this a thousand times, like he already knows all his secrets. Jacob can’t help bucking his hips to match, carding trembling fingers through Teddy’s wild locks.

A hand clutches firm at Jacob’s arse, digging fingers in and he fucking loves it, being grabbed and held, shown he's someone’s, _someone who cares_. 

_He's Teddy’s, and he can do whatever he wants with him_. 

Too bad they’re not back at his bloke’s flat instead, enjoying the view... Jacob could be getting fucked raw right about now.

He’s rocking his hips with a helpless moan, dwelling on that very thought even as Theo rubs a thumb beneath his aching balls, teasing. It lights a match deep in Jacob’s guts, sets the kindling to his smoking bonfire ablaze. 

His cock keeps hitting the back of Ted’s throat on every thrust and Jacob’s amazed with the actual, literal sight; Teddy’s head riding up and down, deepthroating like he never knew and _shit_ , _dammit_ , _no_ —he’s on the edge _already_ , feeling flustered at how soon but bloody hell, everything’s against him lasting even _this_ long, and it’s not like Teddy’s about to notice the blush on his cheeks, he’s too busy _wanking Jacob off with his mouth_ to care.

Through the pea-soup of his head he somehow manages to recall something he’d promised himself years ago. Uses his hands fisted in Teddy’s hair to still him, carefully trying to push him off.

“ _Ted—I’m gonna_ —”

Drawing back from his cock with a slick _pop_ , Ted gazes at him from the cradle of his thighs, thick lashes nearly shut. “ _I want you to_ ,” he rasps, voice wrecked, before dragging Jacob in by his hips like he’s begging him to fuck his mouth.

Theo looks like he’s expecting this, like he _wants_ this, and Jacob feels his last bastion of self-control spiral away, curling a hand at his fella’s nape and nodding, dazed.

“ _Yeah, Theo_ …”

Tipping his head back with another heavy moan slipping out his open mouth, Jacob bucks upwards, frantic.

" _That's it—yes—_ "

Teddy keeps his hips pinned, slides his lips back down the length of him and sucks him off until he’s gasping, calling out to the sky—hands wound tight in Ted’s hair, mouthing his man’s name as he comes down Theo’s throat.

His fella only carries on, burying his face between Jacob’s thighs and drawing out every ounce of cum and satisfaction left in his shuddering body, and then some.

Gasping ragged, Jacob feels as though he's run ten miles in two minutes, thighs shaking, untensing from around his fella.

Theo’s pace is slowing, gently drawing back with a wet, happy moan, lips closed around the head of Jacob’s cock before he pulls off, chin slick.

Takes him a minute to realise that the heavy bobbing of Ted’s throat is him swallowing the cum in his mouth.

 _God_. 

He blinks, dizzy with that stupefying thought to drop his head back down to the canvas, body limp and hot, damp with sweat, cum and spit, smiling like a fool. He’s _floating_. He’s never felt so fucking _happy_.

 _Oh what a brilliant day_ , and it’s not even four o'clock.

“ _Jacob_...” Ted’s voice is husky, _used_ , but there's no mistaking his care, the way he lays his cheek warm against Jacob’s thigh. “You with me?”

A wave of contentment sweeps over him and Jacob’s sparkling, incandescent with the feeling. 

“Absol _utely_.”

Glancing down Jacob strokes along Teddy’s flushed cheek, hooking his fingertips beneath his man’s chin and smirks, hungry for more. 

“ _C’mere, Theodore_.”

“Only my mam calls me _Theodore_ ,” grumbles Ted, but he’s already crawling up Jacob’s filthy stomach, settling himself on his chest like he belongs there, lips fucked swollen, pink and soft. 

“And I can’t wait to meet her.”

He snorts a laugh at the face Teddy pulls, idly sliding both hands down his bloke’s back, needing to feel him warm and near, just like before. Jacob begins trailing his fingers underneath Ted’s rumpled, soiled shirt, smiling as he feels the softest sigh breathed against his skin when his fella lowers his head, stuffs it in the crook of Jacob’s neck. 

Being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure how this would go after they’d, _finished_. But he’s relieved beyond doubt that they’re still the same, still easy with the other. 

When Ted looked up from between his hips, his gaze was awed, adoring; like Jacob had hung all the stars in the sky only to make him smile.

He would, if he could.

Jacob's biting his lip, in thought and to stay his tongue, pondering the rainbow of things he could speak right now in response, spill his guts, his heart... that he… might just… _love_ , Theo.

No. That’s too soon to even _think_ , Jacob, get a sodding grip, you idiot.

He’s drawing lines and whorls along Ted’s spine, over his ribs, beneath his shirt. Pretending the fair skin beneath his fingertips is strung as a violin, plucking a simple tune. In a split second of peace, he imagines the song to sound true and complete, that he has all his fingers present. That he’s capable. 

"Can we do this again, sometime?" Jacob asks, unthinking.

Teddy stills against his throat, his breath a shuddery exhale. “God, yeah. _Please_.”

 _Yes_ , _okay_ , that’s a good— _great_ —answer, but for the next part Jacob’s squeezing his eyes shut, blurting another form of the question without even thinking about it.

" _I want you, to be_ _mine_."

Christ above, that sounds so feeble, and shite, hung in the air like a game bird waiting to be shot.

Feels like he’s up on a stage and flubbed his act, with everyone poised to point and laugh. 

But Jacob would never forgive himself if he let Teddy slip through his fingers, over something so foolish, so _simple_ as parting without saying _I want you_.

Ted draws another slow, shuddering breath.

Jacob waits for his answer. If he bit down, he's sure he'd bite his own heart in two.

“ _God. Jacob_.” 

And then Teddy’s cupping his chin, sweeping him up and kissing him hungrily, tenderly, worshipfully—like he is an ache, and Jacob is salve, and every touch of their lips shows him how to heal. That sweet hand again through Jacob’s hair, stroking the nape of his neck till he’s dizzy with it, with _Ted_. 

“Yes. _Yes._ _I want you. Come home with me_ , won’t you.”

The intensity, the _tenderness_ of Teddy’s answer soothes him like a vat of laudanum never could.

" _Yes_ , I want to," 

And then he remembers, like a kick to the kidney. 

" _But_ _tonight_ , I can't."

Teddy only rests his forehead against Jacob’s, warm breath mingling as they hold each other. Jacob presses on, hating the words as he says them. "There's something arranged that I can't get out of, I'm sorry."

 _Yes you can_ , _Jacob_ , _just push it to another day._

 _No_ , no. He can kill Elliotson tonight, get it over with, pick up his game where he left off. He has _nothing_ planned the rest of the week. 

_You’ve wanted this for so long, don’t let him get away_.

"Tomorrow though? Got nothing on then."

“ _Yeah_ ,” Ted whispers like a promise, kissing the scar across his brow. “Tomorrow.”

Putting work _before_ play? Jacob feels himself age ten fucking years. 

Still holding his man by the waist—and the very _feeling_ and thought alone—that thinking ‘his man’ means that now, Teddy said it, he’s his, _can’t take it back_ —is enough to send a thrill straight through him, giddy and excited, smirking by the time Ted comes back into view, reiterating that promise. 

“Until then.”

“Let me clean you up,” Ted murmurs, drawing back to survey their mess. His button-down is a shambles, cumstained to hell, but he hasn’t seemed to notice—Jacob feels a momentary pang of guilt, and then a filthy spurt of satisfaction. _He_ did that, mussed up his bloke’s clothes, left evidence of their time together all over Ted’s shirt. 

Good thing he shucked that waistcoat.

Hoping to help, Jacob gropes for the pocket of his trousers, lost somewhere around his knees. He’s fumbling out the clean gauze—there’s not much of it left—when Teddy stills his hand, gently takes it from him to continue. 

Makes Jacob feel warm and _seen_ , tended to, letting Ted wipe down his chest, stomach, taking care of him. Jacob sits up on his elbows.

“A handsome fella,” Teddy whispers, tracing fingers over his bird. 

People tend to offer unsolicited commentary of his tattoos in the ring, where they can be seen, but they’re hardly ever pleasant: honourable mention to the bloke last month who sneered _I’ll rip that chicken off your chest_ before winding up flat on the floor.

Like most things, with Ted, it’s different.

Jacob beams.

“A peregrine falcon. Was actually thinking of getting another bird on this side," He lays a hand over his right breast, "A rook, maybe.” Jacob smiles out in answer.

"You should." 

Feels nice to share his idle thoughts, run them by Theo rather than just the voices in his head. Evie disapproves, would simply say he shouldn’t go getting any more, like Father, and the first time he noticed his cross tattoo. Bastard called him indecent, tried to scrub it off with pumice stone to teach him a lesson. Only lesson Jacob learnt was how to spite his father, and got his second ink as soon as he could.

Teddy smirks. “Rook tattoo for the Rook boy.”

Jacob regretfully laughs, unable to stop himself. 

He sits up to pinch his bloke’s trim waist instead, laughing again at Ted’s startled yelp. 

“No _boy_ here, sunshine.”

Ted smacks him away with a scoff, but doesn’t say a word: just winds his free hand into Jacob’s wild hair to keep him close, tossing away the used gauze with the other. 

Jacob does the same, wraps a strong arm around his middle to bring Theo nearer. Doesn’t go for his lips though, kissing instead at the curve of his jaw, trailing down Teddy’s throat and latching on, wanting to leave a heavy mark.

“Ah, _feck_ ,” Ted groans, melting under his mouth and into Jacob’s arms, pulling them flush together, Ted straddling his lap. “Ey, _Jacob_.”

Gently biting and harshly sucking at the thin skin, he pretends not to hear the weak protests at his ear for a few moments longer.

“Frye, leave off. I’ll be sportin’ a mark like I’ve been mauled.”

Heeding his complaint Jacob does indeed leave off, with a sloppy smack of his lips, turning up a smirk as he marvels at the fruits of his skilled labour of love: mottled purples and reds blooming up the side of Ted's stark pale throat. 

"I think it's rather fetching."

“You _would_ ,” Teddy mutters, though he’s making little effort to escape.

"Don't be like that, _Ted_. I could always leave a matching pair on the inside of your thighs," suggests Jacob, sliding his grin back along Teddy’s jaw, quite partial to the shudder that runs through his bloke.

“Shut up,” says Ted, and drags him in for a messy, deep tongue-fucking that goes on a while and makes Jacob’s dick sit up and take notice, _again_. Jesus.

Teddy most assuredly did that on purpose, says as much with the shit-eating grin plastered across his face when he pulls back. 

With a saucy peek of his own, Jacob slaps Theo’s arse only _slightly_ too hard, calls that nervy bluff. 

"Does this mean you’re ready for another go?"

“ _Someone_ is,” Teddy growls, sneaks a knowing hand down to cup his balls, makes him gasp. And after all, Jacob can’t exactly hide the evidence. 

"Round two it is."

Ted’s answering grin makes Jacob’s odds of lasting long very poor indeed. 

He ducks his head at Theo’s neck, breathing him in. "This is _entirely_ your doing, _Neill_."

“You told me to fight _dirty_.”

His fella is still cupping him, strumming his fingers and it's sending Jacob wild, eager for more with a snarl in Teddy’s ear, nipping at his lobe. " _Get on with it then_."

Theo does.  
  


* * *

  
They don’t speak for a good long while after that.

Well, that’s not strictly true—Ted wrestled him back down to the mat, and a great _many things_ were said, mostly the odd expletive and the occasional greedy inquiry as to certain techniques; whether those techniques were any good.

Jacob can confirm that they were all _excellent_ , and _very_ well received. 

After bringing each other off once more for luck, he and Ted had reluctantly peeled themselves from the canvas floor to get dressed, presentable to the outside world. 

Not that either of them _wanted_ to.

Jacob heads into the back where he’d left his clothes, has only time to grab his shirt and waistcoat, shrugging them both on, unbuttoned, before Teddy’s sticking his head round the doorway.

“Manage to find your hat?” Jacob asks airily, remembering how he’d flung it across the room like a week-old loaf. 

In answer, Teddy jams the cap jauntily atop his dark curls and smirks, that fetching love bite on display. “No thanks to _you_.”

“But I was integral to its losing. That’s got to count for something.” Jacob’s walking towards him now, seeing that with the addition of his hat, Ted’s ready to go. “Walk you out?”

“Yeah, alright.” The bloke looks away, but there’s a shy grin when he does, cheeks still pink from earlier.

Teddy falls into step beside him and Jacob takes a bold one of his own. Curls his fingers round the hand closest to his as they walk, knowing now’s the only time they’re going to be able to do so for a while. 

Feels his chest swell when Teddy sucks in a breath, laces their fingers together like a ten-strand plait. It’s new and thrilling and _right_ , makes Jacob feel like something more just slotted into place. 

His life, maybe.

They're down the corridor and nearing the door, so Jacob pipes up, wanting to keep his fella here for a few seconds longer, “Now that I know you’re able to defend yourself, I won’t be so worried you traversing these perilous streets alone.” 

There’s a _bit_ of Jacob’s usual sly charm coming through but he’s not spinning a fib, he’s satisfied knowing Teddy can throw a punch or two. 

“Well. My teacher’s a bit of a knob, but he showed me true in the end.”

Grudgingly amused, Jacob rolls his eyes and tugs on their entwined hands, stopping Teddy from walking any further. He leans in, crowding Ted back against the wall, props his free arm at the door to hem him in. 

“Works best when the student _listens_ to the teacher, _so_ …” Jacob breathes low, eyes tracing Teddy’s features, wanting to commit every curve, every detail to memory.

“Frye.”

He _is_ listening, just takes a sec to train his focus on Teddy’s endlessly deep eyes. “ _Hmm_?” 

And Ted’s tugging him in by his open lapels, skimming the heat of Jacob’s bare chest and whispering into his mouth. “ _Hush_.”

Teddy kisses him, rash and wild and Jacob’s tonguing back just as ardently, leaning into his fella to keep him flush against the wall.

He’s going for a kiss to remember, something Ted will be thinking about the whole bus ride home and then some. Jacob knows he’ll be doing the same.

They break apart after a time, nudging lips against cheeks, trailing a touch along a jaw. They’re close by the door leading outside, can hear the faint hubbub of a London back alley, the noise of the carts on the cobbles above filtering down. 

Not for the first time he finds himself wishing he really could leave with Teddy, lounge beside him on the coach home and stumble upstairs to his rooms; fall into his man’s bed and carry on where they’re leaving off here.

 _Tomorrow_ , Jacob reminds himself. 

Tomorrow.

“ _Jaysus._ ” Teddy ducks his sharp face into Jacob’s neck, kissing sweetly at his bruise. “Don't go snoggin’ any other bloke till I see you again, yeah?”

Jacob takes a moment to believe what he’s just heard, Ted’s daffy little wish making him grin, feel _wanted_.

“What do you take me for?” 

He draws back just enough to catch Teddy’s eye, thinks he’s able to spot a smidgen of reassurance, but cuts in before any sort of wisecrack can leak. 

“Don’t answer that.”

His fella just smirks and tugs on his gaping shirt, pressing one last lingering kiss to his stubbled cheek, and Jacob’s blushing like a maiden: somehow after all they’ve done here, this feels most intimate of all. 

“Till tomorrow. _Jacob_.”

Theo slips out from between him and the wall, with Jacob watching every step. His fella sends one last tarried look over his shoulder, catches Jacob’s gaze for a second, before that tight little backside disappears through the door, and he’s thinking _I’ll see_ you _, tomorrow too_.

The door draws shut with a final _clang_ , echoing through the empty arena and thrumming in his chest.

Jacob looks around the room—from the desolate stands to the scrubbed-off chalkboard, the backroom door wide open and the vacant ring—before realisation sinks in, what’s just happened.

A small grin splits his face, keeps growing, runs his hands up through his hair and then down his face. Jacob collapses against the wall, sliding down to the floor because he’s overwhelmed: _elated_ , comforted, and renewed... all because of this chance, because of _Teddy_ , and the fact he himself took the leap to do the things he wanted, _needed_ , make the man _his_... and it worked.

 _Christ alive_ … he could die happy right in this moment.

Although to anyone who may be listening, don’t take that to heart. Knowing Jacob’s luck, sod's law is gonna kick in.

Dragging himself up from the floor after a few more moments spent in wonder, he takes his sweet time getting dressed. Marvels in the mirror at the two inch-long bruise flourishing on his throat and congratulates himself—and Ted, of _course_ —for such a sterling outcome. 

On his way out he makes sure to switch off all the lamps, leaving only the pilot on for whenever the ring comes to life. Seven, if he recalls? Honestly, he doesn’t care. Jacob’s never felt so blissed out as he does now.

Okay, maybe when he stumbled into that opium den back in Rusper, now _that_ was a mad good night, but still. 

Jacob steps out into the late-afternoon light of the Strand, doesn’t bother locking the door, it dead bolts from inside. Sends a grateful nod to Asha, the Rook guarding the place while he and Ted were… inside. She's leant against the wall alcove nestled beside the entrance, chewing her tobacco which she always offers his way and he always refuses. Disgusting stuff.

“Cheers for the time, Ash. Can be on your way now.”

“No worries, Boss. Glad t’be of help.”

Jacob’s fishing out his top hat from his duster, folds it open and pops it atop his head. He can sense she’s sizing him up while he does, probably surveying the glowing wreck he’s become since he arrived. Likely comparing that then, to this now, and coming to a couple of forgone conclusions. 

“A good lesson, was it?” Her tone is light, but she’s staring at the bite on his throat, and a smirk is beginning to grow.

Turns his smile on her. “ _Oh_ yes. A very promising upstart.” 

He can see the cogs a-turnin’. 

Jacob’s never been one to ignore a chance of fanning the flames of gossip, even when it’s about himself. _Especially_ when it’s about himself. It's exactly why he chose Asha, of all people, for this little gig.

“Think I’ll be seeing him again.”

“Dandy. You be needin’ _me_ again?”

“Nah, I’ll take it somewhere more private next time.”

He strolls on by leaving her a ta-ra, already knowing this'll be buzzing round the ranks up from the Chapel down to Lambeth come morning. 

Jacob couldn’t be more keen on the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then... _what_ a match 
> 
> Here's some art of these two fools I made for my good and lovely wife [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/sn2bpbv22ycfmbu/BoysBeinBoys2.png?dl=0)
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Copthorne** : a village in West Sussex, located just outside Crawley. Boxing prize fights took place on Copthorne Common in the early 19th century, as well as the English championship being held there in 1810, between an Englishman and an American. I took liberties and continued the tradition, I figured some remnants of it would have survived up till Jacob's time
> 
>  **Moggy** : a cat. More specifically, one of mixed/unknown breed
> 
>  **Jam** : “A girl of notoriety in Piccadilly was named 'Tart'. She, in complement to her sweetness came to be called 'jam tart', and the knowing ones would ask – ‘would you like a bit of jam tart?’” The phrase then became “jam”
> 
>  **"A Boxing Ring"** : _weeeeeeell_ that's not strictly true, Jacob. A boxing ring has four ropes around the perimeter, while a wrestling ring has three ropes. The ring in the Strand fight club has three ropes... I'll let him off on this one, poor boy's distracted
> 
>  **Bodach** : Irish (and Scottish) term for an old man
> 
>  **Bricking it** : worried or scared; shitting bricks
> 
>  **"That's the ticket."** : you're welcome [[x]](https://soundcloud.com/missyfrye/jacobpaulvex-moan) (NSFW btw, and _maybe_ wear headphones)
> 
>  **A maypole** : a maypole is a tall wooden pole erected as a part of various European folk festivals, around which a dance takes place. The dance is performed by pairs who stand alternately around the base of the pole, each holding the end of a ribbon. They weave in and around each other and the ribbons are woven together around the pole until they meet at the base
> 
>  **A game bird waiting to be shot** : this line I had originally wrote 'clay pigeon', but later found out clay targets only began to be used in place of live pigeons around 1875
> 
>  **Jacob's tattoos** : the tattoo artist Sutherland Macdonald's work (I am 99% sure) is the direct inspiration for Jacob's tattoos, the bird specifically (some of the Brutes also have tattoos of snakes up their arms which are also this man's work). He was the first professional tattoo artist in England and is said to have tattooed several of Queen Victoria's sons as well as the kings of Norway and Denmark. All this happened after 1889 so it was too late for the man himself to have done Jacob's tattoos, but I have no doubt his style was used in-game. I mean, just take a look at this image and tell me Jacob's bird tattoo is _not_ based on it [[x]](https://mymodernmet.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2017/05/sutherland-macdonald-history-tattoos-4.jpg)
> 
>  **"A peregrine falcon"** : this is actually my best guess as to what species is depicted in the tattoo. It's some sort of bird of prey that's for definite
> 
>  **Rusper** : is a village in the district of Horsham, which is 4.2 miles west of Crawley
> 
>  **Upstart** : a boxing term meaning a new fighter with great potential. Jacob can definitely see some potential in Ted...
> 
>  **Ta-ra** : means 'goodbye'. 'Ta-ra' itself is actually a northern version of the more widespread 'ta-ta', meaning the same thing. But Jacob knows Asha is dating Mags, a northern lass, and he's noticed she sometimes spouts a few northern terms, so it's a bit of a fond tease on his part for one of his favourite Rooks. Asha herself is borrowed from our lovely Syndicate partner in crime [Kat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginarykat/pseuds/imaginarykat)


	14. interlude: hear me sing, out from the lost and found

Two Weeks Earlier

When he hears footsteps in the corridor, Theo thinks he’s dreaming.

It’s all he’s done in this godforsaken cell.

They’ve forgotten him, for five days now—no food, no fresh water. But no more knives to his throat, or deadly threats snarled in his ear, either. There are worse ways to die, Theo knows, than falling asleep and not waking up.

Voices, now, cells away. The ugly sound of boots in someone’s gut. A door slams. A key squeals in the lock.

Theo hunches into himself, as the footsteps fall away.

There’s a strangled gasp, and then a sob, and some faraway part of him shakes his head. 

_Poor sod_ , he thinks, while the stranger weeps as if the heart of him will break.

Makes Theo wince and turn away, face tucked against his knees. He cried his own tears days ago, no sense in chasing more.

Things were just starting to even out these last few years, it seemed. Steady job, tidy flat. A job nicking cargo, sure, but nicking from thieves is hardly a crime. No more renting himself, steps from the nearest slum: if he still swallows the occasional cock, it’s because he wants to do it.

 _Wanted_ to do it. 

Little chance he will again, or that he’ll ever see the sun.

No one will miss him, really. Mam and Da, maybe. He hopes he’s provided for them well enough, that they’ll keep afloat once he’s not there to send his wages home. They’ll never know what happened to him, or this miserable cell where he ended his days.

It’s cold comfort, in a way.

The man in the furthest cell has finally stopped crying, and Theo hopes he’s made his peace.

 _You’ll get used to it,_ he doesn’t say, chest aching. _I have._

* * *

  
It’s the shouting that does it, in the end.

He’s drifting, like a leaf skimming the top of a pond, the same half-dream again: Mam’s making a Christmas ham, and he’s ravenous, sick with hunger at the sight.

“Away out of that, _acushla_ ,” she says, shooing him with milk-white hands, “for it won’t cook faster by your eye.”

Theo stares into the hearth, at the juice dripping off the pork in sweet, fatty plops, sizzling when they hit the fire. His stomach twists. He’s _so_ hungry.

 _Mam, please_ he tries to say, but his throat is parched and makes no sound. Looks to Da instead, in his usual chair, scrap quilt around his withered legs, but the old man is asleep. 

“EXCUSE ME,” shouts the ham, and Theo flinches, disbelieving. Mam carries on with her cooking as if she hasn’t heard, scraping carrots with her knife. Da snores. 

Theo jolts awake.

The shouting does not stop.

It’s loud enough to shake the fucking walls, echoing off cold brick and stone. Loud enough that the words all run together, in a flavourless colourless mass.

That’ll be his new cellmate, then.

Feels more like a hammer, smashing his throbbing head and patience into ever smaller shards. Theo claps weak hands over his ears, grits his teeth.

The bastard carries on.

Theo wants to drown him out, wants to snap that it’s no use. That they’ll both die here, forgotten. Best to temper expectations now, save the wailing and gnashing for the pearly gates.

Except he’s telling jokes now, of all things. Bad ones.

Gobshite.

When he can stand the sound no longer, Theo glares daggers into the filthy wall and croaks, furious. 

"Do you ever shut the feck up, or is this a permanent ailment of yours?"

He’s not looking for an answer. 

“ _Permanent_.”

Gets one anyway, when his cellmate suddenly twigs that he’s in possession of a captive audience.

_Captive. Hilarious._

Bloke’s shite humour must be catching.

Or perhaps it’s just his patience-well run dry, finally, when Theo snaps something vaguely murderous, and the fella only _laughs_.

“Name’s Jacob. Jacob Frye,” the voice says, and Theo _does not care_. He also does not frown, and rub his eyes, and wonder why that name sounds so familiar, slogging pitifully through the marshy bog of his head. Theo Neill does none of these things, because he does not care. 

“Nice to meet you, Jacob Frye,” he says instead, and smiles a bitter smile. “Welcome to Hell.”

Ned mentioned the name last week, he’s very nearly sure. _Frye_. Something about gang wars. 

Feels like centuries ago.

The man says nothing then, and Theo cherishes the silence for a time.

Until he remembers the sound of broken sobs, and suddenly he can’t.

 _Christ’s sake_.

“Neill,” he says finally, scarcely believing he’s been tricked into conversing with this fool, but here they fucking are. “Theo Neill.”

And then, just in case Frye gets any bloody ideas:

“This doesn’t mean we’re mates.”

There. Keep the lunatic at arm’s length.

“Nice to meet you, _Teddy_.”

He can _hear_ the bastard smirk and oh, Theo is regretting this already. 

“Or do you prefer Ted. Theodore?”

He prefers Theo, because it is his goddamn name, but he’s not wasting breath saying so.

“I know. _Tederick_ ,” Frye says, and Theo very nearly laughs. Feels his grip on sanity slipping away, like sand between his toes.

“ _Get fecked_ ,” he sighs instead, and covers his face with one hand. Almost smiles into the dark.

Perhaps he’s dreamt him up, this Frye. Bloke’s got the drawl of South London all over him, lazy and assured. The sort Theo’s always gone for, fully knowing that sort never goes for him. 

Someone easy, quick to laugh. 

“Hey, when we’re out of this shithole, I’ll get us dinner at The Grenadier.”

Someone kind.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Theo says, simply because the offer is kind, and stupid, and he’s too stunned to argue. 

_We’ll die in here_ , Theo doesn’t say. _But cheers, anyway_.  
  


* * *

  
Frye likes to talk.

It’s maddening, at first. The ease with which he runs his godforsaken mouth, the rambling way he slides from one thought to the next in that sly, nudging tone. 

He spins tales of growing up wild, somewhere south, a tiny village. Of the trouble he’s always chased, that's always chased him. Of all the food he could eat right now and the ale that he could stomach. Talks about his sister most, barefaced love in his voice with every word. 

Frye talks like his life depends upon it.

And in spite of himself, Theo listens.

Listens, and thinks of the man in the furthest cell as a person, not just a fool on borrowed time. Someone looking for something he hasn’t yet found. A man who, past all his talk of mates and mischief, is deeply, profoundly _lonely_.

Theo knows what it is to be lonely.

And so he listens, and finds a kindred spirit in the last place he ever thought to look.

”Oi, Ted.”

To care is a mistake, Theo thinks.

He does it anyway.  
  
“You got any injuries I need to know about?”

Takes several moments of sluggish, hollow disbelief to understand why he’s even being asked, why Frye would need to know. So he laughs instead, mumbles something grim and bleak, because what else is there to say. 

“You _still_ plan on getting out.”

Frye’s turn to sound disbelieving.

“You think I plan on staying in here until they break my neck, or starve to death?”

Bleeding Christ.

Jacob Frye is twenty years old, and full of life, and he will never grow any older.   
  
He doesn’t seem to know it.

Theo clenches his jaw, buries the wretched sound rising in his throat.

It tastes like bile.

“I _think_ ,” Theo finally rasps, and feels his cold chest cracking down its centre. “That I’m goin’ to have to listen while they break your neck. Or kick your teeth in. Or maybe both, they seem the feckin’ type.”

Damn you, Jacob Frye. Damn you for being one last thing to lose before the end.

“And then I’m gonna be the one who starves to death. That’s what I think.”

Theo drops his pounding head in his hands, chest heaving with the raging ache of his lungs, his leaking eyes.

Mashes his split lip hard between his teeth, tasting the blood that still pumps through his failing body, still sings weakly through his veins.

For once, Frye is silent.

It’s the worst kind of answer.

 _Damn you to hell_ , Theo doesn’t say, full of rage and grief. _I thought that I had nothing left to lose_.  
  


* * *

  
When Frye— _Jacob_ —loses half his hand, Theo can do nothing but stare at the wall of his cell and listen. Bites his lip to stay his fury, digging nails at his palms in helpless rage. 

The anguished screams echo off the walls, and the blunt, messy sounds of torture fill the space. It seems to last forever.

When it finally ends, when those fucking cowards split, Theo crawls to the door of his cell and tries to see out, frantic.

No way to know if his fella’s even still alive. 

Theo grips the bars of his prison, listening desperately for a sound, Christ, _any_ _sound_...

Old prayers find his lips, unbidden. 

Hail, Holy Queen. Mother of Mercy. Keep this man breathing.

“Frye, mate. Talk to me.”

Our Father, who art in Heaven. Leave him here with me.

“Jacob. _Please_.”

He’s never thanked Him Upstairs so truly as he does, when Frye groans and whispers _Ted_ , the sweetest Theo’s ever heard.

“Shite, Frye. Thought you’d kicked it.”

Well done, Neill. Real delicate of you.

“How’s your hand?”

“... _there’s less of it_.”

Christ in fucking garters.

“Frye, I need you to listen to me. You listening?”

They will both die here, Theo knows. Whether by hunger, or torment, or a cruel combination of the two, they will die. Nothing he says here will matter—the ending is already written, and they can only wait for death like rabbits caught inside a snare.

“Gonna need you to wrap your hand for me, yeah? Sure, you can do that.”

By all accounts, soothing a man marked for death should feel hollow. Urging Frye to wrap his bloody wounds, well knowing they will never heal, an effort made in vain.

Theo does it anyway.

“You’re doin’ so well, darlin’.”

The endearment slips out before he can catch it, call it back.

“ _So_ feckin’ well.”

But then, he’s not so sure he wants to.

Frye is melting tallow, desperately flickering, where once he set the room ablaze. 

Theo closes his eyes, cups hands around the tiny flame, murmurs soft and gentle things to keep that fire alight. 

“I _am_ glad I met you,” he says after a time, once that flame is burning brighter.

He can _hear_ Frye’s weak grin, jubilant despite it all.

“Don’t go getting soft on me, now. This doesn’t mean we’re mates.”

 _Joke’s on you_ , Theo doesn’t say. _Been soft on you for days.  
  
_

* * *

  
He barely breathes the whole fight through, heart racing in the dark. Ugly, broken sounds, as bodies crack and split and _squish_ —Theo buries his face in his hands and prays, to any god or saint who’ll lend an ear.

Please.

Don’t take him from me, yet.

 _Please_.

The cell slams shut.

He holds his breath.

“ _Ted!_ ”

He throws himself against the bars as Frye drops to his knees from out of the dark, two touch-starved creatures reaching out for each other. 

“Frye!”

He is the most beautiful man Theo’s ever seen.

Even dripping with blood and sweat and filth, cast in the pitiful light of that single pane, there’s no denying it: he’s as muscled as a Fionn of old, with strong wide arms and a jaw cut from stone, beneath the dark scruff climbing his cheeks. His eyes are kind, and wild, and his grin flashes feral in the dim. Red spatters mark his face like freckles.

“Didn’t I say I’d come get you.”

Theo’s split lip curls at one corner.

“Took your time, then.” 

It’s a fog after that, of clinking keys and that fucking brilliant smile, the one Theo already knows he’ll never tire of seeing. 

Hope chokes him like a noose. 

Frye tries every key, twice. Three times. More. Rags the lock, growling under his breath while Theo watches distantly, weak hands curled at the bars. 

He’s fully aware he should be coming apart. That a sane man would feel dread rising in his throat with every failed attempt. That the thorns of fear should be growing in his lungs, a thicket of briars and panic at the thought of dying here, alone.

But then, he never expected to be rescued. 

He watches as Frye’s head droops in defeat, hand stilled on the final useless key, but the man’s chest heaves with life. That fire in him burns bright, will keep burning long after he leaves this place: for Theo, that’s enough.

He is a man on the shore, calmly waiting for the sea to swallow him whole.

And for one precious moment, Jacob Frye was the sun on his face.

“Jacob,” he whispers, and his aching eyes sting. Frye’s handsome face blurs, becomes just another shape in the dim, and he mourns the loss more than a future he was never promised, anyway. “ _Go_.”

 _If this is the end_ , Theo doesn’t say, _I’m glad it was with you.  
  
_

* * *

  
It is not the end.

He watches, delirious, while Jacob Frye feverishly claws the bars of his prison apart. Drags iron free of mortar and brick, kicks at the wall till it crumbles. Gasps and grunts as he tears the door down, with only the strength of his mangled hands.

The murky light halos his wild hair, the straining lines of those broad shoulders. Theo watches him through tears that never fall, unable to believe that this stranger, this fool—and he is, a beautiful fucking _fool_ —cares if he lives or dies. 

Few people ever have. It seems ill-advised to start now.

But Frye steps close, holding out one bloodstained hand. His smile is bright enough to light the stars.

"I believe you ordered an escape?”

Theo’s lips move, but he can’t speak. Can only take the offered hand, gazing at him like he’s God. When their fingers twine his heart throws off its fitful slumber, trembling at the touch. 

_Yes_ , Theo doesn’t say, because his mouth is full of hope. _But you’ve given me the world, instead_.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey kids! Silverhelme here, with an unexpected guest chapter that I never thought would make it into this fic, but here we are. Back when Sucho89 started writing, they asked me to create a cellmate for our favourite victorian himbo, and I reluctantly complied because I love them. I never dreamed Teddy would become so important to both this story and to Jacob (and honestly, to me?) and your every reaction to him is the highest praise! Hope this little interlude sheds some light on our prickly Irish lad, and how much Jacob means—and has always meant—to Theo Neill.  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Acushla** : anglicanised spelling of Irish Gaelic endearment “a chuisle” or “a chuisle mo chroí” which translates quite literally to “pulse of my heart” 
> 
> **Fionn** : mythical Irish warrior-hunter Fionn mac Cumhaill, featured in many a Hibernian tale known as the Fenian Cycle (an Fhiannaíocht), anglicanised to Finn McCool or Finn MacCool
> 
> *As a nation, the Irish people have faced colonisation and imperialism by the English for centuries, still ongoing today in the form of various microaggressions. As Catholic immigrants from Ireland during the Hunger, or the Great Potato Famine (see chapter 6 notes), Theo and his family faced constant struggle and prejudice in England, and poverty was almost guaranteed. While this is a work of fiction, it is important for us as writers to accurately acknowledge and pay tribute to the inequality and marginalisation faced by the Irish people, much of which still continues today, albeit in subtler and more insidious ways. More on Victorian London attitudes regarding Irish immigrants can be found here [[x]](https://www.victorianlondon.org/population/irish.htm)  
> I also recommend Lynn Hollen Lees’ _Exiles of Erin: Irish Migrants in Victorian London_ for further reading!


	15. tryin’ hard to recognise, some pure motive inside of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The working title for this chapter was, "Dad-I mean, Darwin."  
>   
> I'm placing the first scenes' notes up here, as I ran out of space in the text box in the end notes, so I suggest reading these after the first scene 🙈  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Number fifty-nine** : the year On The Origins Of Species was published, arguably Darwin's most famous book 
> 
> **Darwin's Collection** : as well as being a famed naturalist, geologist, biologist, and author, Darwin worked as a physician's assistant and was educated as both a medical student and a clergyman; he was also trained in taxidermy by a freed slave named John Edmonstone. He also became fascinated by entomology and was a zealous beetle collector. Surprisingly it wasn't finches, or fishes, or even birds in general (much to Jacob's dismay) that Darwin became the absolute expert on. It was barnacles. He quite literally wrote the book on them. Well, several, in fact
> 
>  **'Got a bit of a thing for birds'** : from naming his gang 'The Rooks', vulture-headed cane-swords, belts with bird symbols and guns adorned with wings - not to mention his chest tattoo, it's fairly certain that Jacob having a bit of a thing for birds, is a thing 
> 
> **'Winged or the wing-less?'** : British slang for a fit woman is “bird,” so Darwin’s making a lad joke here
> 
>  **Passenger Pigeon** : once the most abundant bird species in North America, numbering between 3 and 5 billion individuals, the first decline of the passenger pigeon was noted in 1856. By the 1870s, there was a widespread noticeable decline in their population. The last recorded nest and egg were found in 1895. The last properly authenticated record of a wild pigeon was in 1901, which was subsequently shot, stuffed, and placed on display in a university. The world's last passenger pigeon, named Martha, died in Cincinnati Zoo on September 1st, 1914 
> 
> **"I think..."** : above the first-known sketch Darwin ever made of an evolutionary tree, he wrote the words... _"I think"_. Bit of a nerd nod here. I'm not a Darwin nerd [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/ci2qro1yquqfqcr/Darwin.ITHINK.jpg?dl=0)

Far off lightning strikes, with thunder crackling after—a blinding flash lights up the dark sky overhead. 

With the rain pounding his back, Jacob pulls his collar higher, tucks his hands deeper in his pockets, still cursing as the water leaks in anyway. 

He hurries along the lamplit street, sticking close to the walls, hastening beneath the eaves of the terraces and wishing for number fifty-nine to crop up in short order.

When he does reach the blessed residence, he raps on the door a tad heavier than is required, but he’s absolutely fucking drenched. Can’t wait to get inside.

It takes a long moment for anything to come of it, though. Jacob’s barely able to hear the answering call over the savage beating of the wind at his back, rainwater dripping down his nose.

“ _Who is it?!_ _Do you know what time it is! Far too late to be calling upon an old gentleman, such as myself!_ ”

“ _Mister Darwin. It’s Jacob Frye_.”

He doesn’t hear any shifting about, sliding or turning of keys, but he’s still there behind the door, Jacob can sense his presence.

“ _From the distillery_.” He adds.

Then sounds the moving of about three locks, two of them deadbolt, a fourth one appears to be a chain. And the door’s opening. 

“Mister Frye! What a pleasant surprise!”

Jacob doesn't _feel_ particularly pleasant. His eyes must be the only feature visible from how deep he’s bundled in his coat, hat pulled down low, but he’s glad Charlie recognises him nonetheless. The good cheer on the old man’s face is a comfort.

“Thought I'd drop by for a chat. If you'll have me?”

“Yes, dear boy. You heeded my word on a visit, how _wonderful_. Please, do come in.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Jacob grins, thankful.

Needing no further prompting, Jacob steps on inside, allowing Charlie to close the door and bolt it behind him, locking out the howling wind and relentless rain, thank _God_.

“You picked a quite dreadful time to stop by.”

“The weather doesn’t follow my schedule, unfortunately.”

Jacob peels off his sodden gloves and hat, wiping his feet as he glances a gander about the foyer: dark panelled wood as far as the eye can see, rich navy carpet underfoot. Low gas lamps twin the walls at each side, and a few oil paintings to boot.

“More’s the pity. Please, do accompany me to the parlour, once you’re ready.”

Despite the foreboding appearance in here it’s actually quite cosy, especially with Charlie tapping the side of his arm in that chipper manner of his, a spry spring in his matured step as he walks down the corridor, calling out behind.

“ _And do take off your coat, Mister Frye!_ You’d be far more comfortable. The pegs are behind you.”

Jacob happily obliges and hangs up his black leather coat, still dripping wet with London sky and splattered mud at the bottom. First time he’s worn it out, looks to be holding up well. And by the sterling he splashed out on it, he should bloody hope so.

Before long he’s trailing after Darwin down the corridor, into the far room. The crackling fire of a banked hearth warms his chilled skin before he’s even past the threshold, moving to linger in the doorway of the parlour. 

Charlie’s tottering about with a tea set on the opposite side of the room, clinking porcelain and humming quietly to himself.

“Do take a seat, Mister Frye.”

Jacob slicks his damp hair away from his face to cop a better view of the sprawling room, smoothes it back with an awed sigh as he steps inside. 

“...call me... Jacob...” 

He’s too busy marvelling at the veritable _museum_ he’s found himself in to even _think_ about sitting down: the room is covered floor-to-ceiling in an endless cornucopia of animals, insects, sketches, prints, stacks of books _—_ no, _volumes_ of books, more than both Evie and Greenie’s collections combined. 

“... _holy Hera_ …”

There are a multitude of shelves and cabinets lining the walls, packed with curios, flora and fauna alike; taxidermied foxes, red squirrels, a pair of mourning doves in flight. Boards of beetles and butterflies dry mounted. What looks like a bloody great albatross hung from the ceiling behind him (he’s never seen one in person, before!), and various other seabirds, all dwarfed by its spectacular size. 

Not to be outdone at eye level, there’s also a row of what looks like a variety of sea creatures, preserved in blue-tinted jars towards the back of the cabinets: he’s almost certain the liquid is formaldehyde, he finally looked it up. Eels, squid, fish and barnacles; all floating about, pale and fleshy. 

Jacob pulls a bit of a face. 

_Those_ , he doesn’t like, but the taxidermied stuff is just grand.

Wandering over to peer at the specimens, Jacob’s forgotten the invitation to sit, mouth ajar.

“Staying for tea, my boy?”

“Ah…” Jacob glances at the clock hung on the wall to his left, its brass pendulum still somehow dull in the bright firelight. 

It’s half-seven. He’s got some time. Sends Charlie a decisive nod. “Go on then. Two sugars.”

“I should have guessed.” The old man grins, or at least, Jacob thinks he does, it’s difficult to tell with all that beard in the way. Scratches at his own, contemplating it longer. 

Hm, he wonders what Teddy would think.

Coming to stand close by the cabinets, Jacob knows better than to touch. That way lies rapped knuckles and getting dragged outside by his ear, no supper for a week. 

Seems like forever ago, he and Evie had been brought along to call on a neighbour: an acquaintance of Father’s, naturally. Goaded on by Evie, Jacob’s itchy fingers had twitched towards Mister Aubrey’s curio cabinet, all of seven and possessed by a dreadful curiosity with the taxidermied iguana inside—dreadful indeed, when he found both hand and reptile through the glass and out the other side. The shock was something else: barely remembers anything past the scratch of his starched collar, the burn of his cheeks as Father apologized for his insolent son. It took hours to pick all the shards from his hand. 

Stung for days, afterward.

Back in the room, and with a man he actually _respects_ , Jacob sighs. Didn’t think to say anything the first time they met, and the second was a bit _too_ brief for a chinwag, to put it mildly, but he's been meaning to express his interest, taking a moment to find the right words.

“I”ve got to admit it, Mister Darwin, you’re quite the writer. And it seems, _collector_.”

The sight of Charlie still puttering about with the cups makes Jacob smile. 

“Oh, thank you, my boy. You’ve dabbled in my texts?”

“I have. Got a bit of a thing for birds,” he says, gazing up at the grey-headed albatross dangling above his head. He could stare at it for hours.

“How interesting. The winged or the wing- _less_?” The man makes himself chuckle and Jacob grows his smile, amused.

“Both.”

“Well I must say, it’s always a pleasure to meet an admirer.”

“And as I’ve said before, the pleasure’s all mine. Is this a…?” Jacob asks, pointing at a particular bird, its bluish-grey head and bright bronze breast catching his eye.

“Passenger pigeon, yes! _Ectopistes migratorius_. Had it sent in from North America. Unfortunately, it possessed a bullet hole in the breast, but I managed to cover it up.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Here you are, my boy.” 

Charlie appears by his elbow and hands over his brew, for which Jacob’s very grateful. “Ta.”

Taking a sip, he lets the hot liquid warm his insides like he didn’t know he needed, feeling his toes again for the first time in an hour, the warmth coursing through.

Remembering himself, Jacob carefully sinks down into the seat he was offered moments before, just as Darwin does the same at the other side of the hearth. Thinks better of propping his feet up on the table in front— _manners_ , _Jacob_ , he tells himself sternly.

“So, Jacob. What kept you away from our little rendezvous a few weeks prior? I have to admit, I feared the worst.”

He decides to start from the beginning, or at least the last time they met.

“After my _wonderful chat_ with Mr. Owen,” The sarcasm in Jacob’s voice visibly perks Darwin up to no end, “I found out the man behind Starrick’s Soothing Syrup is one John Elliotson.”

“Doctor Elliotson?” At Jacob’s nod, a thoughtful frown grows across his wise face. “I haven’t heard that name in a long while. He was a brilliant heart specialist, until he became obsessed with phrenology and mesmerism. It ruined his career.”

Jacob wasn’t aware of that, only knows what the future has in store for Elliotson, uncaring of the past. “Well tonight, he’s in the asylum. And I plan on paying him a visit.”

Looks like that’s all Darwin needs to know. 

“Well, then. How should we proceed?” 

Jacob appreciates his spirited attitude.

“Oh, with all respect, Mister Darwin, I believe I should proceed alone. After all, we wouldn’t want to attract any… ‘ _unwanted attention_ ’.”

Darwin sits back in his chair, points a finger Jacob’s way through the air, deferring.

“Sounds very _wise_. I’m sure you can handle it far better on one’s own.”

Jacob relishes the confidence, doesn’t get it very often thrown his way, takes a well-earned slurp of tea.

“However, that still doesn’t explain why you were absent.”

Ah, _yes_. 

“The villains Elliotson is working for?” 

Charlie nods and Jacob leans in, hamming it up with the raising of his brows. 

“They _got_ me.”

“Got _you_?” He scoffs, “I think you can more than take care of yourself.” Darwin sits back in his chair once more, seemingly satisfied with his conclusion, pushing his tea cup to his bushy beard for an assured sip.

The faith coming from his new favourite acquaintance is flattering. “I wish Lady Luck had your convictions, sir.”

Darwin watches him for a while over the rim of his cup, inquisitive eyes squinted beneath impressive brows. 

“You’re not pulling my leg, are you, my boy.”

It’s more stated a fact than a question, Jacob lightly shrugs, nonplussed about the situation that’s now firmly behind him. Right here and now, at least. 

“Afraid not.”

He’s been using only his left hand to hold his cup until now, so brings up his right to cradle it also, in full view of his friend. There’s a tight bandage wrapped around the wound, and a leather strap over that for extra protection from the elements and further hurt.

Darwin can see both.

The old man gains a deepening frown at the sight. Jacob can see the quick realisations flit across his seasoned face; culminating in all that anger melting away, only to leave behind a kind-hearted smile, commiserating in the silence, just the crackle of the hearth heard between them.

“I think…” starts Darwin, lingering for a moment as if completing a thought, needing to finish it prior to airing it aloud. “I think, that whatever those villains have coming to them, they _deserve_ it.”

Jacob’s smile grows, glancing down into his cup. The rich auburn of the tea flows in little whorls and eddies, keeping his attention for but a moment, appreciating both the care and counterplay offered by Charlie.

Jacob sends a playful look through his lashes, meaning every connotation.

“Believe me, I have a few ideas up my sleeve.”  
  


* * *

  
Measuring time by how many extremities he’s lost feeling in, Jacob would say it’s about ten past the end of his tether.

In reality, the towering clock of the asylum reads a quarter to midnight.

Two hours he’s been waiting. _Two_ whole fucking _hours_. 

He had arrived around half-nine, expected to be in and out within one. No such luck.

Turns out Jacob had _not_ bargained for the steady stream of carriages filtering up the drive; or at least, not for so many visitors. Breaking and entering in the midst of all those bodies wandering inside spelled trouble for sure: better to survey things first, wait it out.

He’d watched the arrivals closely; well-dressed and so-called _well bred_ gentry tippy toeing their slippers inside, exclaiming at the terrible weather whilst their coachmen took the brunt of it, sheltering them from the persistent shower with oversized brollies. 

Plenty of asymmetrical faces and principles alike. Must be here for Elliotson’s show. 

And what a show it will be.

Once Jacob crashes the stage.

Waiting aside, it’s not been so bad: he’s kept himself occupied, between walking the perimeter and keeping tabs on a bunch of halfwits, by reminiscing on his many adventures this afternoon. 

Jacob had set himself into a determined mindset on his walk over Lambeth Bridge from Charlie’s: practical and sober, like he does on all his more critical missions. But by the time he’d gotten here and realised just how long this was going to take, he’d allowed his mind to soften, and wander back to his fella.

Just _thinking_ of Teddy, is enough to send Jacob’s gut into flux. And it’s not even about the sex, it’s the man himself. He loved every second they were together, in the pub, their shambles of a lesson, the time spent talking between and after they’d fucked. He wants all of it again, even more intensely, wants to listen to Teddy for hours and learn everything there is to know about him, and... _oh Christ_ , Freddy was right.

He’s in love. 

Coming to terms with that realisation was a little wobbly, he’ll admit—a fully formed and solid conclusion this time, not just brushing it off or skirting around it. No need to beat around the burning bush. He loves Theo and there’s nothing anyone can do to change that, least of all himself. 

Deal with it like a man, Jacob. 

Don’t say a goddamn thing to anyone.

Back down to earth, the shadowed eaves he’s been languishing under have taken the worst of the hard rain for him, and thankfully by now it’s died down to a middling pour, no wind neither. 

Already with his hood up, Jacob steps out into the sepia lamplight of the street. It’s utterly dead, devoid of anyone. He’s not seen a soul pass by since the last carriage departed, twenty or so minutes ago. Thank fuck.

He can get on with it.

Walking briskly across the road he enters through the main gates, passing beneath the wrought-iron scroll reading _Lambeth Asylum_. 

He can’t imagine being brought here. He’s not really considered it till now, has only ever heard bad fables and horror stories of asylum living; but he’s beginning to dread thinking of just _what_ he may find inside.

Jacob keeps up his pace regardless.

Two crows suddenly scatter, flying this way and that, up into the black sky. Walking past where they took flight, he sees the carcass of what looks to have once been a rat, lying torn to pieces on the cobbles, soggy and ravaged.

What a good omen.

Sauntering vaguely down the edge of the path, treading through puddles and fallen leaves alike, Jacob sticks to the shadows, nips across the way and hugs close to the wall. 

He silently moves around the corner, heading towards a sprawling courtyard tucked away from the main road. On his scouting of the area, Jacob ascertained that this secondary entrance seems optimal for more clandestine comings and goings, which suits him just fine.

The sight of a vacant police wagon—clad in iron and on standby—further cements the eerie feeling this place is giving off, hair prickling at the back of his neck. And he’s not even bloody inside yet.

However, the gates leading out are open and unlocked. Great. Finally a good sign. Means a faster escape if he has to leave in a hurry, could even take that wagon to boot. _Liberate_ it, he means.

“ _Can anyone help me_ … _I'm trapped in here_!”

A woman, and she’s banging on a door to his right. 

Strange. 

Unable to tell if she’s a patient or perhaps a lost visitor, Jacob fights the immediate urge to come to her aid, studying the door with a frown. Clearly must be stuck if she’s stranded and calling out; no point in testing the lock, _that_ will only cause more trouble. 

Taking a step into the courtyard, Jacob turns and squints up at the facade overhead, searching the wall above while rain patters down on his face.

There’s an open window directly over the doorway, roughly eight feet between. Jacob grimly wipes the rain from his beard and flicks it away, begins figuring out a route upwards, looking for any hand and footholds available to him.

Usually he’d run up the wall with no prior glances, latch onto the first thing there, but now... 

Now he has to stand, and puzzle it out. 

The window is only about fifteen foot high, but that’s still fifteen _higher_ than he’d like it to be. 

_Listen to yourself_ , _Jacob_ , Evie would be rolling in the puddles laughing if she was by your side.

The woman continues to rail against the door, tap furiously on the glass. He’s pretty certain she can’t see him, since the glass is frosted and it’s dark out here, so he ignores her, focussing instead on what he has to do.

Flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles, Jacob forces through some quick, heavy breaths, rallying his body to ready for this, his muscles to wake. 

There’s no place to stick his grapple that isn’t the eaves of the roof, too far above his head—if he’s going through that open window, there’s nothing else for it, Jacob knows. 

He’ll have to climb.

Taking a running jump, he uses the momentum to help gain a few feet higher than a standing one would offer, latching onto the larger flagstones running up the right side of the doorway. He climbs up one more brick than his leap propelled and then halts, clinging white-knuckled to the wall.

His left hand is doing all the work here, latched on lightly, with the right not holding any weight. He’s hung on the cornice running adjacent but beneath the cracked window, feet perched securely on the bricks below. 

Jacob’s staring at his right hand, giving the two remaining fingers there a little more weight to bear each moment, until he’s only holding on with them and naught else.

 _Okay_. 

This is better than he thought it would be. 

His hand isn’t straining, no pain pulling from his muscles taut, this is fine. His shoulder isn’t stretched either, nor his ribs. So long as he’s careful they should stay that way. 

Truth be told, the only time his hand _has_ hurt recently is when he’s knocked the raw edges of the wound itself, the rest of it is just dandy… there was no need to be worried about this. 

Right?

Right.

He really should have practised. Imagine if he didn't have control over the situation, if his ascent was frantic and impromptu; a Jacob Frye special, if you will. He'd be proper fucked.

Leaving the self-inflicted berating for another time, Jacob gets back to it, repeating that _there's no need to be worried about this_ beneath his breath. 

He's never travelled to Africa, but denial is a wonderful thing.

Shimmying across the ledge to reach the open window, he clambers up onto the windowsill itself. 

Damn thing doesn’t budge much when he tries to jimmy it wider, only moving a couple inches, so he squeezes under and lands carefully on the other side, settling with barely a sound.

“ _Is there anybody out there_?”

_Not any longer, love._

Jacob stays crouched, still. He’s landed on the high-shined parquet of a balcony, a puddle of rainwater gradually growing around his feet the longer he waits, listens. Past the low balustrade directly in front, an over-sized chandelier hangs dead ahead. Its glaring gas lamps are lit nearly too bright for the wood-panelled space; it’s hazy in here, somehow almost clinical as they burn.

“ _Let me out of here_!”

Ah, yes. 

Perhaps he should see what’s going on.

Jacob eases his crouch and stands a little taller, swipes off some rain still clinging to his coat. A strategically placed ladder sits fixed against the wall, so he takes that down to the ground floor, landing on his heels with a purposeful _thud_.

A gasp from behind as he turns, sees that the woman who’s been in distress all this time, is garbed in a nurse’s gown. Makes sure to pull down his hood.

“Madam? What’s the matter?”

Keeping his voice low and walking towards her, Jacob sticks to the edge of the room, disinclined to be caught out in the open like a chicken in a fox's den.

The nurse’s frantic explanations are a little patchy: that she must see Miss Nightingale immediately (the lamp lady?), that her master key has been stolen, and now she’s by herself with only intimidating brutes around. Jacob lets her know he’ll do what he can to help, asking for clarification before he steps away.

“The man who stole your key, any distinctive features I should know about?”

“Um, _oh_ , he was tall, even a bit above your height. And he had side whiskers lower than all the other men here.” She pulls a face upon the mention of the whiskers, and honestly, lady, he feels the exact same.

“Stay here and try to keep a low profile.”

“Oh quite, thank you, sir!”

Jacob winces at her raised voice, already pulling his hood back up and heading for the hallway, muttering too low for anyone else to hear.

“ _Don’t thank me just yet_.”

In the adjoining room there’s a guard bent over a pile of papers, shuffling pages haphazardly across a desk. Looks like he forgot his reading glasses, snub nose almost scraping the table. Dolt.

Jacob leaves him alone. No sense causing more fuss than is necessary, especially with a civilian so close. 

Taking a look around the corner, it’s not a particularly long corridor, but he can see a few orderlies milling about. The closest one is blocking the way into what looks like the main foyer, standing guard between a pair of open double doors.

Sneaking nearer, along the wall and doused in shadow, he quickly comes up behind the roadblock. 

Jacob gears himself up, imagining his hand placements, exactly where his arms need to go, if he'll have to compensate for his shortcomings. 

He takes his chance.

The guy’s completely unaware, and scrambles to block him far too late—Jacob’s already got his left arm wrapped around his throat, _squeezing_ , his right clamped over his mouth to muffle the startled shriek and any further desperate gulps of air. 

Even now when not in his best form, Jacob easily overpowers him, the bloke doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of breaking free. The orderly hastily slips into unconsciousness as Jacob tightens his grip, _just_ enough to block their breathing, _not quite_ enough to break their neck. 

It’s an art, it truly is.

And he’s chuffing Leonardo.

After making sure the bloke is out, Jacob drags the limp mass into the shadows, then forgets them almost immediately, focus trained back on the mission, and on acquiring that key. 

Appears there are four more guards in the entrance hall: two larking about in front of the hearth, one looks to be patrolling the upper level, and the last one is his target. With those whiskers, he can’t not be. Honestly put Freddy’s to shame.

The two at the fireplace are no issue, they’re not even looking this way. The one upstairs is walking slowly, heavy-footed, easily avoided if timed right, but this last one...

Must be the guy in charge. His route seems erratic. One minute he’s by the hearth with the other two, then he’s heading upstairs to disappear into one of several waiting doorways.

That’s where he’ll bag him.

Patiently waiting for Mutton Chops to head back down the staircase, Jacob makes his move as soon as the guy’s heel hits the ground floor. Dashing across the room and pulling himself up the side of the stairs, winces as his shoulder jolts upon vaulting over the banister before legging it up the remainder of the way, shoulder twinging.

On his ascent, he overhears Punch and Judy down there talking.

“So, what’s this I hear about Doctor Elliotson’s experiments?”

He takes the briefest gander over the bannister, sees Judy shaking his head. 

“All I’ll say is, that fellow holds a candle to the _devil_.”

Jacob’s flinty expression turns even darker. If _these_ guys are turned off by the man he’s hunting, what’s the bastard _actually_ capable of? 

He’s not so sure he wants to know.

Continuing on, shadows seem to cloak most of the upper level, which suits Jacob just fine. The room he’s earmarked has little lighting as well, makes sneaking inside a trifle. 

Judging by the hefty oil portrait of Elliotson’s gib mug on the far wall, this must be the man’s office. Jacob glares disdainfully at it.

Glancing about the rest of the room, there’s not much else in here: books, a tea tray, odds and sods. A bunch of parchment papers rolled up on the desk, a dying plant in the corner. Jacob sighs. At least he’s not the only one who forgets to water them.

And—most annoying of all—just above the drooping fern, a speaking tube is currently rattling out the most vainglorious lecture he’s ever heard; could rival bloody Father. With Elliotson in residence, Jacob has very few doubts that it’s not the man himself.

By the time Mutton Chops arrives, he’s sequestered himself in a nook beside the entrance, pressed flat against the wall and doused in shadow. 

Chops strolls straight up to the desk, starts rooting through the papers, utterly oblivious when Jacob walks up behind him, grabs a hold of his head and slams it forward on the desk.

The only sound made is the _crack_ of the man’s nose breaking; which Jacob will allow this once.

Nicking the keys from the guy’s belt, he’s back out the door and down the stairs in seconds only.

Very pleased to find the fretful nurse exactly where he left her.

“Madam?” Jacob catches her attention with a low whistle, strolling towards the locked door. Tries out the key and grins when it clicks, opening it wide to the relentless downpour, and the expanse of the yard beyond. The police wagon remains in situ— _good_ —and the nurse clasps her hands together, relieved.

“Oh, you have my gratitude, sir. I shall inform Miss Nightingale that I’ll not be working for this asylum ever again!”

“I think that’s best for everyone.” Jacob sends her off with a weak smile, supposing it’s good that she’ll be speaking to old Flo, get the issues in this place sorted out.

But for now, a problem he can solve in the interim:

“Now, where to find the _Doctor_...?”

Feeling a bit further pleased with himself, it is indeed helpful that he’s acquired a master key to the entire asylum, and the nurse didn't want it back. 

Seems the whole place is his playground.

Taking a peek through the door where the guard was trying to read without his spectacles, Jacob can see now he’s taken a seat: legs propped up akimbo on the desk, not a care in the sodding world. 

Lazy bastard. Whoever would _do_ such a thing.

Through the doorway past him, he tallies two more men, and they’re both facing this way. Bugger. No chance of catching them _off-_ guard. 

He smirks to himself, heading discreetly back upstairs to the mouth of Elliotson’s office. Mutton Chops is still out cold on the floor, but Jacob pays him no mind, instead disappearing through the large main doors on the landing with no one else around.

The panelled wood still pads the wall as the way splits off, goes right and left. Both look exactly the same. Eh. He takes the right.

Down a small flight of steps, he reads _Restricted Area_ above the open corridor. Perfect.

His very first foot in the hallway is uneasy—supposes it’s the tiles beneath the wet still clinging to his boots, so makes doubly sure to keep his weight distributed evenly. _Can’t be too careful,_ reminds the helpful little Evie in his head.

A slightly less familiar voice seems to be floating in from the adjoining room, through the thickened glass to his left. Jacob has to grab a pitifully thin blanket that’s been left draped over a discarded wheelchair by his side, wipes at the stained and sullied window with a glob of spit, just to see who it is. 

_Ah_. Doctor Elliotson.

Jacob watches in disgust as the good doctor performs some macabre procedure on the patient in his care, looking down on the theatre open to the floor below.

Blood splatters and spurts on Elliotson’s white coat, gushing across the equally pristine tile. Whatever he’s doing is boring into the patient’s skull while the man still breathes, gasping and shrieking in pain.

Jacob’s still watching, sickened when Elliotson jerks his hand, seems to have gone too far and the patient’s limbs drop, stops his struggling and squealing, and stills. 

Dead. 

“ _Well, as you've just witnessed, the application of too much pressure can sometimes result in... unexpected outcomes. Unfortunately, it appears I've... ruined the organ_.”

 _You don’t say_.

What a despicable way to kill a man.

 _You kill people for a living_.

That's different.

 _Is it_?

Yes, they deserve it. Upholding power structures and systematic inequalities does not a living man make. God knows what _this_ poor sod had done, but it was surely nothing on that scale.

 _That guard in the cell wasn't doing anything like that, either. Whose brains you turned to swill_.

That was self defence. And he _was_ part of it. I was— _it was self defence_.

 _Who gives you the right to decide who lives and who dies_?

Your mother did, before I left her house last night.

 _Very mature_.

Aren't I?

God, he's going bloody mad.

 _You're in the right place for that_.

Shut _up_.

Jacob squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, throwing out any more intrusive thoughts. Stuffs a gag in their mouth and hides them in the cellar, until his job is over and done with. 

Tries to, anyway.

By now he's halfway down the corridor, coming up to an open doorway. 

Entering soundlessly, he can still hear that bloatbag’s voice through the adjoining glass; there are more windows in here that connect to the same theatre Elliotson’s lecturing in. 

And… _damn_.

Jacob’s gotta hand it to this room, it’s by far and away the most disturbing one yet. 

Looking about the place he spies endless bottles of medicines, every different shape and colour you would never want to ask for are lined up along four large apothecary cupboards stationed about the room. A few small mobile basins that look like they haven’t been cleaned in donkey’s ears, stained and discoloured, empty bottles and needles strewn atop. 

Newspapers with red stains dripped across them, stamps haphazardly struck on scattered files, weighing scales holding ominous looking liquids left out, and a filthy mortar and pestle sat beside a bunsen burner, something black and purple crusted in it… 

This place is a nightmare.

He’s half expecting Burke and Hare to come strolling around the corner with a cadaver.

In the centre of the space are two huge wooden boxes, another of their type on the edge of the room too. They have glass sides so can be seen straight through, but a sizeable coil of metal sits within, with tubes coming out of it. Perhaps best if he never learns what that does.

There’s even a table that, to Jacob’s untrained eye at least, looks to be of better use in a morgue; it has drainage channels around the outer area and holes so whatever odious liquid might be in them, can drain out.

Speaking of, the floor itself is revolting, with layers of filth built up over years of neglect, scuff marks from wheels and scrapes by God-knows-what scored deep into the tile. 

He supposes visitors never see this part of the asylum, so why bother keeping it to the standard of the public space. There are only _patients_ back here after all, they don’t matter.

That’s the general gist Jacob’s getting from this place, especially if Elliotson is the one running it.

Either way, there’s no obvious windows to crack or doors into the theatre in this room, or indeed, even on this floor. 

“ _How to do it_ …”

For a moment, and hoping for inspiration, Jacob walks on over to the window, coming to stand beside a human skeleton set up on a frame. 

Probably an ex-patient.

That’ll be Burke and Hare, again.

He shifts a slight step away.

Looking down into the theatre, Jacob sees Elliotson head towards the sinks and tables towards the side of the room, looks to be pulling on a chain beside a speaking tube.

“ _Send up a cadaver_.”

Well, this seems a match made in Hell.

Jacob spots a few entry and exit points down there, but they all seem rather dull and obvious. Best to _make_ an entrance, he thinks, why settle for half measures?

So, with a showy plan of action now in mind, Jacob goes looking for the morgue.

The double doors in here aren’t budging, and he doesn’t want to try busting them open _just_ yet. Can see a white-clothed orderly on the other side walking the corridor. He’ll come back to it.

On his way out he comes across a rail of white doctor's coats hung up, just waiting here, for anyone to pick up… 

He thinks better on that particular urge.

Leaving this room of dismay on the opposite side he entered, there’s a corridor mirroring the one he came down, with a handily placed ventilation grate leading to the other side of the doors he just tried.

With only a couple of meaty screws holding the ornate metal panels in place, Jacob manages to inch them off with the tip of his hidden blade. 

Quietly shifting the grate to the side, he lowers himself on his belly, careful of his ribs, and crawls on through.

That orderly is still there to his right, leaning slouched against the bannister and looking into the large room below. Looks like it’s the same layout and decor as the entrance lobby in here, from what he’s able to see. There must be a gathering of some sort down there, Jacob can hear many-a-person’s voice, plus a pretty decent tune from a piano. Either way, he waits a minute or so for the shirkster to turn away before leaving the vent. 

Crouching, he braces against the bannister so he can’t be seen, takes a peek below into the churning hubbub of noise. 

There must be forty or so people down there, in threadbare clothing, all: these must be the patients. 

Some are chatting, swaying to the music, some clearly _not_ to the music. The guy at the piano is having a merry old time… but with a furrow of his brows, Jacob can tell, the bloke’s not all there. A woman is curled up in the centre of a table, shifting back and forth and hugging her knees, crying… wailing. 

His frown grows. Looking closer at the milling crowds, some of the people are talking only to themselves, not even those around them, and one man is running backwards and forwards from the foot of the stairs to a place Jacob can’t quite see, then back again. Same footplants, same speed, speaking loudly to himself. 

There’s a guard lurking amongst the crowds, on a patrol route of his own. The patient dashing laps crosses his path, if he’s not careful he’s going to— _ah_. 

End up on the floor with a swipe from the orderly’s billy stick. 

The patient’s cowering and pleading, but the guard towers over him like a thug, brandishing the club like he’s aiming to deal even further damage.

Gives Jacob a painful reminder of where he was, not too long ago. _His_ prison may have been smaller—may have been more contained and bare, more obvious—but this asylum is still a prison for many of these poor souls, if not all.

Clenching his fists as the patient cries out in pain from a blow, he’s itching to go down and give that guard an opponent who _can_ fight back. Fucking meater.

He can’t though. Would cause far too much commotion, scare the rest of the patients. Put them directly in danger, and alert another handful of guards to his presence. 

Reluctantly, Jacob moves on, waits until the orderly up here turns away again, then heads down a corridor to his left. Ghosts by an arrow and a plaque reading _Morgue_ beside it.

Sticking to the edge, this corridor is wider than the others he’s been down, and appears to have rooms off to the sides. Some are open, some locked: all of them rancid and spoiled. Peeling paint, deep-rooted mould and dry rot eating away at the walls, stains climbing, more cracked tiles, smears and liquids he won’t let himself think about—Jacob has to duck into one of the open doorways when he hears even footsteps rounding a corner up ahead. Slips into shadow just as a guard walks by holding papers, a bottle of some sort, and a large nail file. 

Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t put thought into _anything_ going on in here.

Once the guard has left earshot Jacob puffs out a breath, glancing slowly to his right. There’s a patient here, wrapped in stained white bedclothes and slumped on the floor in the corner, glassy-eyed. Shaking and whimpering in place, and though Jacob stands in their line of sight, he’s sure they cannot see him. 

Poor devil.

On the broken tiles adorning the walls, someone has scrawled words, images: _kill me here_ begs the closest, with a crudely-drawn hanged figure beside it. _It was more fun in HELL_ screams another, a round face crying solid black tears.

He thinks he’ll leave now.

Slipping past into the next cell, that door also stands open, but no one’s home. Pockmarked plaster in sickly, faded blues, washed-out greens—save for a stark warning smeared across the tile, one that turns his veins to ice.

 _THEY HARVEST YOUR CORPSE_ , painted in crusted, bloody red.

Jacob can still see the _fingerprints_.

Jesus Christ.

A sharp scream pierces the silence, makes him flinch before he’s stumbling back into the corridor. Picking up speed as another heart-rending wail tears through the halls, Jacob breaks into a proper peg, passing an orderly too enthralled with the task of straightening out a cabinet to notice him sneaking through, or the screaming growing louder.

This place is a _nightmare_. He should probably look around further, track down if there’s any evidence of that warning, a room where they’re harvesting human organs—if he’s lucky, they’re simply the ravings of a genuine lunatic.

Jacob’s well aware that most of the people in this place should never have set foot here. 

He’s heard ghastly things whispered of asylum life—not just here in Lambeth, either. That a soul can be caged, wings clipped for the smallest of things, like talking in your sleep, even. A woman expressing opinions, or maybe it’s pain from being on the rag? Husband thinks you’re leaving him? Grief from the death of a loved one, uncontrollable fits and coughing—the list goes on, all bestowing horrors in the guise of help. 

Sexual derangement. If anyone knew, they’d surely condemn him and Ted.

It’s just another abuse of power, this place—another boot on the neck of people in need, a reminder that in the eyes of the world, if you’re different?

You get thrown in here.

And eventually sent mad anyway, by the conditions and treatments they put you through.

Shaking with anger by the time he reaches the hallway’s end, Jacob slips into a much larger room: an open space, almost as commodious as the operating theatre that so disgusted him before. He stands on the small balcony that wraps around the room and seethes, taking in the sight of tidy desks and clean walls up here, table lamps and framed certificates—makeshift offices for the staff, better kept than any patient quarters. _Of course._

His study’s cut short by a sharp, buzzing snap, and then those cries, again—loud enough to fill the room, a woman’s agonised, quaking screams from below. 

Jacob takes a step forward, peering over the wrought-iron balustrade to see two guards hunched over her, braced against the table. 

Blue sparks fly from something in their hands as they inflict pain and suffering upon the poor woman, her shaking form held down. It’s coming from one of those huge wooden boxes of earlier, the one with glass sides and a large metal coil within. 

The inflictors are shouting over the noise, so loudly Jacob can hear every word.

“ _What’s wrong with her_?”

“ _Do I look like a doctor? She’s barmy, is all_.”

His revulsion at the sight is only quashed when fury takes the lead.

“ _Ah, nothing a little syrup won’t cure_.”

He couldn’t help that patient earlier, but he can sure as hell help this one now.

Vaulting over the railing without pause, it’s a short drop to the filthy tiles below. He lands with a slight grimace as his ribs _jolt_ from the sudden impact, but there’s no sound—he makes sure of it. Jacob prowls closer, silently picking up a hacksaw from a basin as he passes, readies it in his sore right hand, hidden blade poised on the left. 

“ _Haven’t you heard? Stocks are low, we can’t administer Soothing Syrup without Doctor Elliotson’s consent_.”

“ _Ah, bollocks_!”

In quick succession, Jacob stalks just behind the two guards. Dragging the nearest man’s shoulder back to expose his neck, using the hacksaw to slice through the windpipe—simultaneously thrusts the blade on his left wrist up, through the second guard’s chin, smoothly dragging the blade back down and tearing open his throat.

The men drop at Jacob’s feet, gurgling and twitching. 

He doesn't care.

Even with its operators dying on the floor, the machine keeps running, electricity crackling: the woman is _still_ writhing in agony and Jacob, fraught at what to do, gives the huge glass box a swift once-over. Seeing no obvious buttons or switches, he grabs instead for the nearest wooden chair and puts the damn thing through the infernal contraption’s windows, driving the legs into the coil and successfully stopping the machine with a shower of sparks. 

The beast comes to a stuttered, grinding halt. 

Breathing sharp and short, he returns to the woman’s side as she gasps and groans, weakly curling in on herself—no doubt still in misery.

There appears to be some kind of metal sheeting cuffed around her thighs and wrists, wires leading to the blasted apparatus. Jacob carefully attempts to remove them, and gets shocked at first touch for his trouble. “Ah _—shit_.” 

She wails.

"Um, madam? I’m just trying to help. Careful now.”

“ _No—_ no!”

Her hair is matted and her eyes are wild, unseeing—but beneath it all, she’s wasted thin, a once-kind face wretched beneath the pallor. His mother would be of this age, had she lived.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”

Jacob’s chest aches.

“ _That’s what you always say, Philip_!”

Poor woman doesn’t know what’s up or down, but he manages to pry the few sizzling clamps from around her limbs and takes a step back, not wanting to crowd. Spots a moth-eaten blanket folded on a nearby gurney and tucks it carefully around her trembling form, hating the sight. 

Wishing he could do more.

She’s quieted now, shaking stopped. He lingers a moment, contemplating if she might need anything else—but then gathers his wits and gets on with it, back to the mission.

There’s a set of stairs at the rear of the room, leading down into darkness beneath a sign reading _Morgue_. 

Finally.

Slinking quietly away he makes quicktime down the stairs. Jumps a guard at the bottom, coldly breaking their neck without remorse. Snarling, Jacob shoves their body behind a stack of Soothing Syrup crates, and creeps further along the corridor. If all the orderlies in this miserable hell are like those others, he has no conflict on the matter.

There’s less light down here, but it’s cleaner than upstairs—makes all those patient rooms look worse and worse by the second.

Jacob suddenly hugs the wall as footsteps come to stand in the doorway around the next corner. He can tell the guard is cold, tired: the heaviness of the man’s breath reads the thick, stale air down here not agreeing with his lungs, a quick rub of his arms betrays the chill in his bones. The haggard sigh when he wipes a hand down his face, just how exhausted he is. 

This should be a doddle, even head-on.

“It’s so _quiet_. Can’t wait to be home with my wife, and kids.”

Well… fuck a duck.

 _Fine_. He’ll leave this one. Just knock him out or something.

Which Jacob does, sits the man propped up on another box of that redundant gunk after bopping him unconscious with a bash to the head. He’ll seem quite the poor hero to his spouse, probably be laughed at by his kids. Conscience assuaged. 

Finally taking note of the morgue itself—the place he’s bleedin' here for—the number of occupied stretchers and cut-open corpses makes him queasy, slipping past the mortician’s turned back is the work of a moment.

Fortunately he does spy another body, untouched, and laid out on a relatively clean gurney at that. Must be the next one lined up for Doctor Frankenstein. Perfect.

Jacob gets to work removing the legitimate cadaver while the oblivious mortician at the far end of the room appears to be getting paid to chase vermin, not only work for them.

“Ugh, _bloody rats_! Take that, you filth!”

Jacob props the corpse up beside the hero of earlier, gives him a nice little bedfellow to wake up to.

“ _—and don’t come back_!”

He legs it back over to the gurney and lays down quickly, covers himself with the sheet as the mortician's footsteps grow louder.

Calms his breathing, lies as still as he’s able. Reminds him of the time he hid from Evie under her own bed, after he’d broken— _accidentally_ , mind!—one of her prized porcelain figurines and she was on the warpath. They were twelve and she was the devil, ended up finding him _anyway_ and dragged him kicking and screaming out from under the bed frame. She’d held him down, stuffed his own dirty socks in his mouth until he cried.

The taste and smell back then were nowhere _near_ as repugnant as the fucking sheet that hides him now… holy buckets of shit, it’s _rank_. 

By the time Jacob’s regained his bearings, everything is pitch dark, _loud_ , and shaking like a magsman. Must be in a hydraulic lift, up to the theatre room. 

Steel girders creak and groan as they shudder to a stop, and the gurney begins to move: it’s a few jolts and jounces until the wheels are turning smoothly, riding over even tile...

“Here it is, Doctor. My apologies, for the delay.”

The stretcher is brought to a halt and Jacob lets out a silent breath, readying his blade, fingers poised. 

“We will continue with our experiment shortly.”

Elliotson.

The lights above are blazing, burning harsh and bright through the thin sheet. Jacob has to close his eyes so he won’t be blinded by the change once he shows his hand.

“In a moment, we will compare the brains of our two specimens.”

_Like hell you will._

“And since both had a propensity towards violent behaviour—”

Jacob smirks.

“—we should see similar protrusions in specific parts of their brains.”

Nothing in here mate but scandalous thoughts on tomorrow night, dabbing it up with Ted, and what grub he’s going to be able to snatch by the time he gets back to the train. A nice chunky pork pie should do. 

There’s all at once a silence… and Jacob knows it’s time for the show.

“Corpses do _not_ have boots...”

Flinging back the cover, he’s on his feet in a flash, drawing his arm back to slam the hidden blade through the side of Elliotson’s head. 

Give him a taste of his own medicine…

* * *

* * *

Laying down the dying man.

Jacob’s knelt beside him.

“ _At last it ends… yet I can only think of beginnings… a better tomorrow, forged with the blood of visionaries_.”

“All I see is the blood of a lunatic.”

“ _Do you truly believe murdering an old man will stop humanity's great architect? Crawford Starrick has a glorious design for mankind!_ ”

“A design that’s meant to be _broken_.”

Elliotson scoffs.

Final words dripping with contempt.

“ _You’re a child… a child who believes he can solve all the world’s woes with the flick of a blade… have you ever pondered the consequences of your actions, Jacob Frye_? _Or did your father teach you nothing_?”

Jacob’s eyes widen at the mention of his father.

The doctor takes his final breath.

His head falls back. 

Dead. 

No time to linger on Father.

Speak with Evie on it tomorrow. 

Trails a handkerchief against the old man’s fatal cut.

And rises to his feet.

* * *

* * *

Turning around, the screams and caterwauling from the stands bring him back to the room, to a panicked and stricken audience reeling from the shock of witnessing Elliotson’s death.

Jacob calmly raises his hands, aiming for a reassuring tone.

“I beg your pardon, _ladies and gentlemen_! _Please_! Calm yourselves!” 

Blood still drips down the hidden blade, extended from his gauntlet. An uneasy hush falls over the crowd. 

He sends them all a murderous grin.

“I’m afraid the show is _over_. No refunds!” 

Pandemonium erupts once more, and Jacob basks in the chaos he’s created for but a moment.

The far-right door rattles, suddenly kicked open and slammed hard enough to shake his _teeth_ as two guards come rushing in, clearly aware of the situation and armed to the nines.

Jacob draws his gun in one swift movement, lines up the Beaumont on the closest guard and without pause pulls the trigger. The man drops to the floor with a wail, body skidding to a halt along the tiles at Jacob’s feet, turning a red trail behind. 

The second guard flinches at the noise, hesitates at the sight as Jacob trains the smoking barrel on them. 

He’s a smart man it seems, staying back a good six feet. 

“A _wise_ decision.” 

Keeping his attention and pistol locked on guard two, Jacob flicks the silver tip to shift him out the way, all this while stepping over the downed guard writhing on the floor. Jacob rolls his eyes at the theatrics.

He only shot him a few inches below the knee, it’s not like he _lost fingers_. 

With the open door now at his back, and guard number two stood front and centre beside the doctor's corpse, Jacob juts his chin.

“I’d rethink your career, mate.”

The door at the opposite end of the theatre flies open, and Jacob fires again—this time at three new arrivals wielding truncheons in the air, and one with a gun of their own.

 _That_ bloke hits the floor instead and Jacob hightails it out the exit behind in the commotion, pelting down the corridor towards his ticket out of here: the open door where the nurse escaped.

It’s just a few short rooms to go, leaping over a sofa, careful not to slip or trip on the plush rugs littering the way, and tutting at the terrible choice of curtains—they do _not_ match the wallpaper.

In the penultimate room prior to his egress he spots the guard who forgot his glasses, snoring in his chair. No need to kill or maim him, Jacob simply runs past the man, yanking the back of his seat down as he goes. 

He’s already out the open doorway before he hears the bloke howl, thudding as the guy falls backwards out of his chair.

The rain is cold, refreshing as Jacob grins and hops down the stairs, feet skidding over slicked-up cobbles. 

Taking the police carriage doesn’t even cross his mind, too much effort—instead he runs, down the desolate drive and out onto the muddy road, keeps going until the rickety houses of Lambeth swallow him up. Far and away from the asylum’s domineering eye, as the clock tower chimes a quarter to one.

Another long minute of sprinting, feet pounding through stale puddles and over stony paths before Jacob slows, ducks into an alcove to catch his breath. Tears down his hood, and wipes the rain from his face.

 _Safe_.

All in all, a successful mission. Even if he did find horrors he wasn’t expecting in that place. 

Jacob plans on doing something about them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone's about to get their britches reformed.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **The crows and the rat** : these are actually in-game, if you're paying attention when you walk down the main path towards the asylum
> 
>  **"What a good omen." & "Sauntering vaguely down..."**: anyone heard of Good Omens? I think it's pretty decent...
> 
>  **Over-sized gas lamps** : just as in chapter 13, I made the lights here into gas lights as it would have been anachronistic to have electric lighting (like in the game). _That_ was first used in Holborn, UK in 1883
> 
>  **Punch & Judy**: a traditional British seaside booth-based puppet show featuring the title characters Mr. Punch and his long-suffering wife, Judy. The show consists of slapstick and multiple characters (my favourite was always the crocodile), usually with Punch delivering violence to those all around him and getting it right back in return 
> 
> **Gib mug** : Victorian slang for an ugly face, 'he had a gib face'
> 
>  **Speaking tube** : becoming popular in the Victorian period, being built into homes of even the most modest families, speaking tubes were used to communicate over distances in homes, factories, ships etc before the telephone was invented. I personally had no idea speaking tubes were so functional until I looked into them. They could be used to such great effect that the human voice could be heard clearly over a distance of 300 feet!
> 
>  **Donkey's ears** : meaning a very long time (as donkeys have long ears). Unknown to me until looking the origin of this phrase up, the original is 'donkey's ears', not 'donkey's years', as is used now. It is thought to be misheard as the latter, due to dialectal pronunciation. The first noted use of this phrase is a bit later than 1868, in the book 'In Gipsy Tents', but sod it. I'm the author now
> 
>  **Burke & Hare**: were famous serial killers active in 1828 in Edinburgh, Scotland. They killed 16 people (that we're aware of) solely for the purpose of selling their corpses for anatomical dissection. After making a shoddy job of one murder in particular, they were reported to the police and arrested, along with their wives who were also in on it. Hare was offered the chance to give a confession and damn Burke in return for immunity, which he snapped up faster than a fresh corpse. This, rather ironically, led to Burke being found guilty, executed, dissected, and his skeleton put on display for everyone to come and gawk at. Remarkably, you can still see Burke's skeleton today, along with his death mask and a book said to be bound with his tanned skin, all available for people to visit in Edinburgh!
> 
>  **Shirkster** : Victorian slang for someone who's lazy and wants to get out of doing work
> 
>  **Patient writings on the walls** : all mentioned here are in-game, and there is indeed a room where they harvest human organs. Did you manage to find it in your playthrough?
> 
>  **Barmy** : behaving strangely, or very silly, crazy even. Barmpot, means the same thing
> 
>  **Electroconvulsive Therapy** : in the game the electroconvulsive therapy patient is a man. I changed this to a woman in this chapter, as during my research I found out that throughout the entire history of Electroconvulsive Therapy women are two to three times more likely to have received it than men. I won't get into why that may be (men have no idea what they're doing when it comes to female anatomy/medical issues) but the wiki article is a good place to start if you're further interested in finding out
> 
>  **Magsman** : Victorian slang for a con man, a bad one
> 
>  **Hydraulic lift** : just as with the lighting, electric lifts were not in use yet. Hydraulic and steam-power were used. Also, fun fact regarding lifts: did you know, the first elevator shaft was invented 4 years before the first elevator!
> 
>  **Dabbing it up** : Victorian slang for bed, 'to dab it up with'
> 
>  **Beaumont** : Jacob's gun is the (54 bore) 1856 Beaumont-Adams revolver Freddy rewards you for reaching Level 1 with him in-game


	16. it's not the wakin' it's the rising

He's the first thing Jacob sees. 

Those bottomless, pitch brown eyes, half-lidded. Lustful. Only for him.

Even richer tousled curls trailing down, lying in stark contrast against his forehead, just on one side. Little ringlets that beg to have fingers twisting through them again, giving them a _tug_. 

A downright basal smirk that lets him know Teddy has all his secrets kept hidden behind it, and why doesn't Jacob come and _force_ them out of him.

They kiss quickly: desperate and harsh.

Lips bitten, teeth raking, ears pulled, hair tugged. 

Heads held fast, guiding the angle in order to get their tongues deeper entwined. His mouth an empty place that Jacob wants filled by nothing but Theo.

Ted’s unfastening the placket of Jacob’s trousers, already on his knees with a hand inside, and Jacob falls back against the mattress, remembering hard canvas instead.

" _Yes_ … _yes_ , _Ted_ , _yes_ —"

Stroking leisurely and drawn-out, deliberate, Jacob eagerly rubs down his prick, already harder than a fucking mast imagining Theo on his knees, and back to their bout yesterday in the ring. 

They're the worst odds of his life. 

Never, ever going to be any good going into this—Jacob thinks he'll bet against himself not lasting a single round. 

Smirks at the filthy thought of it all. 

Thoughts.

Thoughts... like the thick tongue he remembers running up the entire length of him, Teddy’s mouth smothering as much of his cock as would fit. 

Christ, _what_ a thought, that it had actually happened. 

" _...ah... fuck."_

The desperate, brittle whisper catches high in his dry throat, head tipping back into the array of tangled covers, hips raising as if moving deeper into Theo. 

" _Teddy—right there_ — _yes—_ "

 _God_ he wants to be deeper in him, wants to fuck him like mad. 

_Be_ _fucked_. 

Would keenly take Teddy’s cock right now, touch his face and hold his body, breathe heady against the man’s soaked skin; mix their sweat and spunk together again, so there's no way to tell where one ends and the other begins.

To whisper in his ear the depraved plans Jacob has for him, bite down, feel Theo shudder and twitch and hold him fast, fuck and frot until they're both too weak to move, shot so much cum his mind's gone with it.

Speaking of, he feels the cornerstones being laid in his build to the finish: breath hitching, hips rocking, _gasping_. He imagines Teddy _knowing_ , and sliding his mouth along faster; nimble, brisk, _hot_. 

" _Oh…_ _Theo…_ "

A sudden _click_ , leads his eyes to flutter open.

"Jacob. Are you going—" 

" _—Evie_!"

Holy fuck.

Evie’s all but stormed the tiny room as Jacob sits up faster than a scalded dog, strategic hand placements stuffed well in the covers.

Doing his best casual, and failing miserably.

She's hanging in the doorway like a smog, and they're staring wide-eyed at each other. 

He can feel the heat, the blood in his cheeks from the excitement, all hot and bothered from his retake, he must look a flustered _mess_ ; _God he hopes_ she doesn't realise—oh, who's he kidding. 

This hasn't happened in years (he twigged on to better places to pull himself off than his bed in their shared room, away from the snooping eyes and ears of dear sister), and he never expected it to happen again. 

More fool he.

But Jacob didn't fucking bargain on her barging in _here_ , a tiny _private_ cabin without so much as a by-your-leave. 

_He was sure he locked the door last night._

"Henry's ready with his briefing for us. In the, library."

"Oh, _great_! Well, _thanks_. For telling me. Thanks. _Bye._ "

Then there's the worst kind of excruciating silence crawling the walls between the two of them. 

Evie’s expression doesn't alter all that much, just a slight eyebrow raise and a tip of her head—but then again Jacob doesn't need much, to know what's coming next. 

"Are you tugging yourself off?"

" _Evie_!?"

She laughs, disbelieving and bubbly. If he had half a mind to, he'd enjoy her elation.

But he doesn't and she's a cow. 

After far too long a time she sighs to calm herself, leaning theatrically on the door handle. The hinges squeak.

"Same old Jacob."

"Shut your gob! And _sod off_!"

She smirks, and _why oh why_ did he have to get riled up so easily? It eggs her on to no end.

"So, what _is_ this? Hm, it's noon so, the _third_ time, today? If I'm going by your old schedule."

Pasting on a pleasant smile, Jacob lifts his right hand, puts his remaining digits to good use with a two-fingered gesture her way.

"Just _twice_ , actually."

She's barely fighting off a flurry of giggles, he can tell—waiting impatiently for her to get it out of her system. 

He's got something waiting to get out of his.

"Well, when you've finished with your, _little_ , task—"

Jacob growls.

"—there's a briefing to attend in the study, don't forget."

" _Thanks_. Now bugger off!"

Closing the door with a look that needs no explanation, Evie just can't let it go, snarking as she exits.

"Good luck!"

A pillow hits the door where her face should be, and Jacob flops back down into the nest of covers pooling around him, hair falling in his eyes: mood spoiled, and dick thoroughly wilted. 

"Bloody _marvelous_ …"

He has to go to that meeting, and she's going to be insufferable. He just knows it. 

"Maybe I’ll just go dip my head in an ice bucket and drown."

What else is new.  
  


* * *

  
Unable to locate neither ice nor a bucket, Jacob finds himself reluctantly slinking in to join the briefing.

“Jacob, I’ll allow you to start us off.”

He’s only _just_ stepped inside the carriage and Greenie’s already caught him off-guard, not even bloody sat down yet.

Impossible to miss Evie’s smug face, though—pleased as punch where she stands with arms crossed, near enough in the center of the room that he has to move around her to get past. She follows him with piercing blue eyes, that damnable grin tucked between her round cheeks.

Satan herself.

“Ah... _yes_. Elliotson’s dead.”

He can feel both sets of eyes on him, sees Henry raise a mild brow: no doubt expecting further detail, and put off by his uncommon sharpness. Jacob refuses to meet Evie’s gaze again, the utter mare. But then of course she pipes up, sickly-sweet.

“Well done, brother. Sounds like you had the matter _firmly_ _in hand_.”

Jacob knows exactly what she’s doing, levels her a flat stare. 

“I killed him and he’s dead. End of. I infiltrated the asylum, found out where he was and knifed him.”

“See, Jacob, that wasn’t so _hard_ now, was it?”

Ignoring her Jacob stalks past to his usual seat, drops down on the cushions to face the assassination board. He settles in with a casual arm across the back of the settee, feeling anything _but_ as Evie drifts to stand beside, leant against the safe like a spare part. Can’t bloody fathom why she doesn’t just sit down, but he’s got a sneaking suspicion that she wants to watch him squirm.

Greenie clears his throat, sounding pleased.

“It’s good to hear you succeeded, Jacob.” 

Appears the bloke’s commandeered most of the wall opposite, clippings and reports nearly covering up the usual target sketches, red string pinned to join it all together. 

Reminds Jacob he needs to cross out Elliotson’s ugly mug, one more flunky down.

“As you know, we have been making strides in every corner, all across the city.”

Jacob forces his enthusiasm, tries to sound as if crawling back into bed and sleeping for another twelve hours could not be _further_ from his mind.

“Give us the gist of it, Greenie. I already made my notes.”

“You may want to discard those, as things have changed.” Greenie unpins a short list from the board. “We know supplies of Soothing Syrup have all but dried up, which is good news for us, and a great blow against the Templars.”

But Henry’s handsome face creases, a deep furrow etched between his brows. “However, legitimate medicines are becoming scarce, and we have word of why: namely, stockpiling, and hyperinflation of prices.”

Scratching his chin, Jacob’s wheels are turning. “If we know where these stockpiles are, I say we bring Abberline into the fold. Tip him off to the locations, people involved. If anyone’s able to bust ‘em before they do more damage, it’ll be Freddy.”

Plus, Jacob’s certain the peeler would benefit from the collar, put a smart little grin on that fuzzy face.

“What about aiding the pharmacists themselves?” Evie interrupts, tapping her notebook. “We can ensure their supplies reach hospitals, instead of being waylaid by hoarders.”

Not a bad idea, actually.

“I can do that. Give me the names, and I’ll send a pair of Rooks along with every shipment.”

Evie seems struck, sends him a smirk.

“I knew you had good ideas in that head of yours, somewhere. I’m impressed.”

He plays along, marinating in the veiled compliment. “Yeah, but they’re buried _deep_ beneath all the bad ones. Just _itching_ to get out.”

“Shame that they so often lose.”

Jacob flicks the meat of her thigh, his fingernail _cracking_ on the leather, and grins while she shoves him off.

Greenie coughs.

“If we can get back to the meeting at hand?”

He and Evie have the good grace to look repentant beneath their budding smirks, caught-out like the children they used to be, brawling in the dirt. When Henry turns back to the board Jacob can’t help himself, leaning in to whisper, conspiratorially.

“ _Got something to tell you after_.” 

Her piqued brow is all he needs to know she’s interested. No surprise there—she may think herself above it all, but Evie’s thirst for gossip is _unmatched_. Gratified, Jacob merely settles a hand on the cushion behind his head, and grins.

“As for Lambeth Asylum, we have no idea how long the Templars will wait to replace their late doctor.” Greenie taps at the sketch, in the center of the dead man’s forehead. “We will simply have to keep our ears to the ground.”

“What about us? Can’t we get in there before they do, ensure whoever takes over isn’t under Starrick’s thumb.” Jacob’s gnawing his own thumb, pushes on before he’s interrupted, or loses the thought. “What about _Florence Nightingale_ , I _know_ she works there. And Elliotson was hardly renowned, according to my sources.” 

Sweet sister gives him a intrigued head tilt at the latter, and wouldn’t she like to know.

“Miss Nightingale is not in residence, she merely visits and offers her services when needed. She has no bearing on the running or funding of the institution,” Henry supplies, but Jacob’s mind is already two steps ahead.

“ _That’s_ something else I wanted to talk to you about; the _state_ of the place, inside. It was like a waking nightmare, and I wasn’t even a patient.” 

Jacob runs a ragged hand through his hair, heartsick with so much to tell: the treatment of the patients, the beatings, the sparse and disgusting rooms... 

The words pour out of him, every detail he’s able to recall, fists clenching as he recounts the poor woman tormented on that table, the countless bodies flayed open in the morgue. “The patients were afforded no dignity, not even in death. Elliotson deserved worse than what I gave him.”

Shock grows on Greenie’s kind face, and Evie’s too—but she merely clears her throat, expression sober by the time he’s through.

“While that _does_ sound awful, you can’t expect the patients to be released, or kept in a standard hospital, Jacob. It wouldn’t be safe.”

Jacob gawks, disbelieving her callousness as she thumbs dismissively through her notebook.

“I’m not— _saying_ that. I’m saying the way those people are treated needs change. And what kind of ‘safe’ society is it with the likes of us running around, anyway? You think people would call us _safe_?"

Bloody hypocrite.

Evie’s nostrils flare. “I’m not _insane_.”

“Neither are many of those people!” And the ones that are, he wants to add, need proper _help_ , not abuse—

“How would you know?”

Jacob can’t _believe_ her—

Henry sighs, textbook composure shaken enough to draw Evie’s critical eye, then Jacob’s wary one.

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves, here. Jacob, I’ll speak with Miss Nightingale. I know she has influenced policy makers and begun petitions in the past with great success. Hopefully, she will be able to bring about the much-needed change you’re proposing.” 

Seems that’s the best he can hope for, for now, and Jacob offers back the list, a tad more crumpled than when it arrived. 

Greenie returns it to the board, unpinning a folded letter in its stead.

“Before you both arrived in London, and during my time of gathering allies for the Brotherhood—” Jacob stifles a yawn at the mention, Greenie’s already losing him. “—I reached out to several potential contacts. All but one ignored my request.”

“At the time we could not come to an arrangement, but now, with the notoriety of the Rooks growing day by day,” Greenie motions to Jacob and he beams, grin tarnishing when he sees Evie roll her eyes, “we’re very much welcome back.”

Old girl takes the proffered letter, frowning lightly before passing it off to Jacob. “What is their business? How will we know the information is accurate—”

“—A _brothel_?”

Evie falls silent, slowly turning to look down her nose at him. Doesn’t bother to hide her distaste. “ _How would you_ —you know what, never mind. I know _exactly_ how.”

Jacob knows because he actually takes _his_ nose out his own arse and leaves the train once in a while, makes friends while she busies herself scribbling in that stupid notebook of hers. 

Which is very dry, by the way. Don’t bother reading.

“I recognized the address,” Jacob argues, knowing it's pointless as the words leave his lips.

She won’t believe him, anyway.

Oblivious where he stands at the board, Greenie still looks pleased. “The brothel madam is Beatrice Worth, a very shrewd woman. She may prove an invaluable ally—being so close to the heart of the City, they host high-ranking clientele. Their information will be more than deserving of whatever she’s asking for in return.”

Jacob nods, taking it all in. Glances down to skim the finely-scripted letter in his hand once more, before looking back up. “I’ll go then?” 

Evie purses her lips. “Yes, but don’t get distracted.”

What Evie isn’t saying is that she believes Jacob’s just as much of a trollop as the girls in the brothel he’ll be visiting, which both amuses him to no end, and also stings a little. 

She’ll never understand. 

Spending his nights alone and away from home, Jacob got good at making friends where he needed, and why would working girls be less favourable than anyone else? At least they’re honest, a good laugh. Never judged him for being himself. And once you’re past the awkward first offer and refusal, they always became fast friends.

Hanging around Crawley’s coffee-house kept him clear of the biting winter cold for a few hours, always gave him someone to talk to. And punters would be less likely to try anything rough with the women when Jacob was milling about: even at seventeen he could crack some jaws, and did, on the odd occasion. 

All this to say, Evie was none too impressed when she found out just _who_ he was hanging around with. 

She’s never _asked,_ just assumed all those years on the streets he was larking about with God-knows-who in back alleys and pubs: the biggest gal-sneaker in Crawley. And while there was a small bit of that, admittedly, it was nothing like what she imagines. 

Stuck in her ivory tower, with only Father to tell her right from wrong, Evie has no idea the life he’s lived.

That’s why she’ll never understand.

Sticking to the humorous and refusing the hurt, Jacob just can’t help himself when it comes to winding her up; plays up a more common drawl, she _loves_ that.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be _in_ , I’ll be _out_. _Sharpish_ , like.”

Evie ignores him, tilts her button nose loftily in the air.

“Shouldn’t we be trying to close down these houses, rather than maintain them? These women need help to get out, not stagnate in their misfortune.”

Jacob turns to stare, incredulous.

“And how will _that_ help? Where will they go?”

She blinks slowly, turns her head his way as if the mere effort is beneath her. “I doubt any of them _want_ to be there, Jacob.”

“You sound like the bloody government! Want to drive a railway right through their parlour, _Evie_? I’m sure they’d be ever so grateful.”

She rolls her eyes harshly, and here it comes. “If we address _why_ these women are forced into this life in the first place, they won’t need to, to _sell_ themselves to the lowest bidder.”

Evie’s already shown herself for a judgmental fool, and now an ignorant one—the address he spotted right off, tucked opposite a pub that pulls _miserly_ pints. Sure sign of a high-class neighborhood. If Evie truly knew what she was harping on about, she’d realise toffers like these are paid _very_ handsomely, not a low bidder in sight. 

He scoffs. “Oh? It’s that easy, is it?” 

“Yes, if you’re willing to put the effort in.”

“ _If I’m willing_ —!” Jacob sputters, disgusted. He can’t understand her, cannot fucking _fathom_ the nerve, and naivety required to spout this tripe. Slumping back on his settee with crossed arms, he’s unwilling to argue this rubbish any longer. 

Seems Greenie’s decided to take up the torch in Jacob’s stead.

“Evie—Miss Frye, what you’re proposing may be a little _too_ grand, for us currently.” 

Jacob snorts, loudly, because that’s the understatement of the century.

“Perhaps we take this one step at a time, help these women and they will in turn aid us to reform.”

From the corner of his eye Jacob sees her frown, _considering_ Greenie’s point. Of course she’ll listen to him before her own brother, how depressingly typical. 

“I suppose you’re correct,” she concedes, finally.

Greenie nods, encouraging. If Jacob didn’t know any better, he’d say the man just breathed a covert sigh of relief. 

“Ah, Jacob. When you visit, I would advise you to seek out any information on your next target, Malcolm Millner.”

He spends a futile moment scraping his memory for the name, must show in his face for Evie leans towards him, murmurs helpfully.

“He works for Starrick. Heads his transportation network.” Ah, _right_. “Starrick bought his company a few years ago.”

Greenie nods, producing a small portrait of a plug-ugly man at least twice their age. Pins it to the board just to the right of Elliotson’s dead-eyed sketch. 

“In the shadow of St. Paul’s, Millner has emerged as a ruthless operator: attacking and destroying any competition to his omnibus business. Buses set aflame in the streets, reports of Blighters injuring drivers and passengers both.”

“Conspicuous,” Jacob mutters, scrubbing at his bristling chin as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “That doesn’t sound like Starrick’s style.”

“It isn’t. Which is why we need to know more.” Greenie rustles his notes, thoughtful. “I’m certain the ladies at the house will provide us with that.”

Carefully refolding the brothel madam’s letter, Jacob nods, tucking it away in his breast pocket for safekeeping. “Then I’m on it.”

The chap leaves him a kind look and Jacob feels appreciative, grateful to be trusted with something important that _isn’t_ murder. Speaking of important—

“Hey, Greenie. What you said earlier, about legitimate tonics: we should make sure Clara and her anklebiters have first access to the medicine they’ll need. If they’re sick at all, they’ll be the first to go down.”

Not to mention, they’re already more vulnerable than most, even in the dead of summer. Jacob’s not losing anyone else, not without a fight.

“A good idea, little brother.” Evie sounds genuine enough, though he could have done without the diminutive. “I can see to that, while Jacob does his, bawdyhouse.”

Honestly… he stares at her. He's not going to touch that with a ten foot barge pole, which is incidentally, what _she_ said.

“Good.” Henry smiles, gaze lingering on Evie for a long, pleased moment, and Jacob fights the urge to roll his eyes. Christ, if only they were as adept at _speaking_ to each other, Romeo and Juliet here might get somewhere.

“Jacob. I won’t presume to tell you where to redirect your gang’s efforts, however—the taking of another borough may be instrumental in toppling the Templars’ stranglehold. Perhaps, _City of London_ —”

“—I was thinking, Southwark.”

Greenie falls silent. Jacob smooths his hair back, reclines, shuffling off his nerves because this is his _chance_.

“City of London would be a perfect target, sure, but _Southwark_ is less protected, their strongholds more dispersed. _And_ after it falls it will likely take little to have Lambeth following suit.” 

The lovebirds share an assessing look, though Henry appears more convinced than Evie; she definitely suspects something. Jacob moves in to seal the deal. “Let’s take two boroughs for the price and effort of one. That way we’ll be much stronger when we take the City, after.”

“You certainly make a compelling point,” Greenie reasons, tilting his head. “Miss Frye?”

Evie shrugs slender shoulders beneath all that leather, still propped against the safe. “You know the strengths of your gang better than anyone, Jacob. It’s fine by me.”

 _Yes_. 

Jacob breathes a secretive sigh of relief, swiping an unruly lock of hair from his temple and trying not to grin. Making Teddy’s neighbourhood safer for his fella is the ultimate goal, and he’s only just getting started.

He sits back, chuffed.

Greenie begins anew, this time about their research: seems he and Evie have been uncovering details hither and yon, their precious magical trinkets within reach once again. Jacob tries to keep his head up, nod at the appropriate moments, keep most of his wandering thoughts at bay—but when they begin finishing each other’s giddy sentences, he blots the words out.

Chooses to watch the way Evie quietly thrills instead. 

How her eye teeth come visible when she smiles wide, and genuine. Clearly matching Greenie passion for passion with this precursor guff, chiming in with gusto; the way her freckles scrunch around her nose. All signs she’s in her element, truly happy. 

Jacob knows.

Pausing for breath, it seems Greenie's fastly run out of topics to keep them here, searching one last time through his papers, sweeping back his velvety-looking hair. Evie’s still watching, keen as anything, but Jacob itches to be through.

“Ah. Jacob, Evie. Anything else?”

When that blessed final question is asked, his answer is a definitive _no_. 

Nothing else to speak of, no theoreticals waiting to be debated for another ten minutes, he’ll surely go bloody _mad._

Jacob pushes to his feet just as the slightly-swaying carriage rounds a corner, slaps his hands together, ready to _do_ something. "If that’s everything, Greenie, I have several pressing matters to attend to." 

Namely, jotting down those wearisome letters, get them out of the way so he can focus on cleaning himself up within an inch of his life: trim back this beard, wash and style his hair (he’ll use Evie’s soaps for that), thoroughly scrub the grime and dirt of last night’s endeavour from his person. Tidy a few _other_ places as well, just in case.

Wants to look enticing, handsome, _bespoke_ for Theo. 

Wants him to be able to _see_ what he's missing, every moment his hands aren't on Jacob.

Greenie’s pulled all his notes from the board, books tucked beneath his arm as he heads for the door. Jacob’s about to follow suit—he’s got a rather _delicate_ question for the man’s expertise, doesn’t want to greet Theo tonight empty-handed—when he feels a small, strong hand grip his shoulder. 

Evie.

"I hope you're going to accomplish everything you mentioned, Jacob. Not mete out empty promises."

He leans back, rests his weight on one leg in an offended slouch. “You think so little of me?”

“No, but I know you’re easily sidetracked.”

Jacob sighs, glances at the ceiling, parroting Evie’s words before she has the chance to utter them. “ _Don’t deviate from the mission_. I’m well _aware_. Thing is, these aren’t missions.”

Evie watches him, and for a moment Jacob thinks she’s going to contradict his last, but to her credit, she doesn’t. He sighs again. “I’ll get on instructions for my Rooks to lend protection to the pharmacists and suppliers that need it. And I’ll send a note to Abberline, let him know his upcoming role in our medicine scheme. I’m sure he’ll be _delighted_ to hear of his involvement.”

She crosses her arms, seemingly satisfied. “And what of the person of interest case he offered you?”

Jacob stares blankly, unable to recall mentioning it to her, or anyone. “The bounty hunt? How do you know about that?”

Evie raises her chin; haughty coming through. “I spoke with the Sergeant late yesterday afternoon. He asked for _me_ since trying to get a hold of you again proved rather difficult, wherever you _were_.”

Jacob feels himself being hemmed in, like a trout corralled into a net, goes on the defensive instead. “ _I_ was prepping for Elliotson, and I’m doing the interest case early Thursday.” 

Day after next should leave him more than enough time with Teddy, should tonight go _particularly_ well.

“Anyway. What did he want?”

He does _not_ like the way she’s staring at him, one fine brow raised, like she’s sussing out a lie he hasn’t told yet. 

“Jacob. Do you think I’m _stupid_?”

He stalls in surprise, staring down the barrel of a gun named Evie and not knowing why—swallowing hard, Jacob holds his own, glares right back.

“The _state_ of your neck.”

Oh, shit.

He forgot about _that_.

Evie’s pinning him in place with her gaze, like she’s demanding an explanation, which she honestly _is not owed one bloody bit_ , he’s done nothing to warrant one, she’s just a nosey git. 

Reaching up, running a hand round his throat, he’s unable to feel anything but his necklace, but Jacob knows they’re there: the sweet, conspicuous _love bites_ Teddy gifted him yesterday, during their ah, _activities_ , in the Strand fight club… 

He has no idea what to say.

“I was... with Teddy.” 

Way to cover it up, Jacob, old boy. 

Top marks.

Evie looks dismayed, and troubled, and Jacob feels hurt at the sight, _although why the sodding hell should he be—_

“I thought you were being _careful_ , Jacob. How many times must I reiterate _—_ ”

“Oh _Evie_ , leave it out.” Interrupting her and tired of this rigmarole, he’s not certain what she’s getting at but he doesn’t want to hear it, rolling his eyes. “Men and women don’t _bite_ differently.”

“ _You_ would know.”

Is that supposed to count against him? The catty priss. 

He mutters, dander rising, “What’s your point? You here to _shame_ me?”

“No, you _buffoon_ , my _point_ _is_ , that I…”

 _Love to be in control? Want to stop this perverse farce? Can’t stand to see me_ happy—

“I’m not losing you too, Jacob. Not over something so _stupid_ as you getting _caught_.”

He stares.

Even if she went about it as tactfully as a cart horse through a nursery, it’s still a kindness. Proof that she cares, in her own misguided way, same as with all those newspaper clippings in their youth. It’s as near as he’ll get to her blessing, Jacob knows. 

Makes his chest feel tight.

But Evie looks genuinely fretful, and Jacob lays a gentle hand on her arm, reassuring. Eager to steer that wary look off her face. “Evie, I can look after myself. _Teddy_ , can look after himself. I’m fine.”

Sees her cast a regretful glance downwards, realises she’s staring at the loose bandage wrapped around his right hand. 

He shifts it away, out of view.

“I’m _fine_.”

When his intrepid sister slowly looks up, Jacob can see the softness at the edge of her eyes has returned; the afternoon sun warming through the windows makes her glow. He feels finer for it. 

“You better be,” Evie finally huffs, freckled face ruddy and fond. “Because if you end up dead or in prison, I’m going to take it _extremely_ personally.”

He places his hand loosely over his heart in jest, prodding at her shoulder with his other, heartened by her concern. “I’ll be careful. But only for _your_ sake.”

“ _Good_.” 

She’s trying not to smile when she prods him right back. He jams his grin down deep.

They’re both appallingly bad at this.

Evie raises an angled brow instead. “So, what was it you wanted to tell me?” 

Takes Jacob a moment to gather her meaning after that breakneck turnabout, offering only a blank look, but _then_ : “ _Oh_. Last night, before Elliotson kicked the bucket, he mentioned he knew _Father_.”

Evie looks utterly knocked for six, and Jacob’s quietly relieved he’s not the only one in the dark. “...what did he say?”

“Sounded like he _knew_ him too. What was it…” Jacob puts on an approximation of the old loon’s voice, “‘ _Or did your father teach you nothing_?’ is what he coughed at me, the pompous prick.”

Evie looks contemplative, a petite furrow growing between her freckled brows. No doubt scouring her memory for any snippets that may help them, harking a return to the nights she used to sneak off to the bottom of the stairs: drop eaves on Father and George, their muted debates before the hearth. Return triumphant to report the gossip of the moment back to Jacob, lie awake wondering when they’d finally become true Assassins.

He remembers those days fondly. Not that he ever much cared what was relayed to him, almost always dull council affairs, but the larking-with-Evie bit. He loved that. They used to have such a laugh.

“In all my time listening to Father’s conversations, I never once heard Elliotson’s name.”

“That’s no good…” Jacob slides his hands to his hips, frowning alongside his sister. 

Evie sighs, after a moment.

“George might know.”

Thoughts well-and-truly shot from that _disastrous_ suggestion, Jacob quirks a wry brow. “Yes, but then I’d have to talk to George.”

"Hm, I see your problem." She places her finger on her lip, thinking again. “I could write to him, make it short and to the point. Mention it’s urgent business.”

Jacob holds up his hands in a gracious surrender, swaying where he stands. “If you’re willing to take that grey-haired bullet: you have my blessing.”

“Grey-haired thanks to _you_ , Jacob Frye. Poor George.” She smirks despite her words, and he knows she doesn’t bloody mean it. “That summer Father returned to India, you made his life hell.”

Jacob scoffs, pushes his fringe to the side. “ _I’m_ not the one who spread glue on the seat of his dining chair, or _salted_ his porridge.”

“No, you just tied his boot laces together at the top of the stairs.”

He can’t stop the laugh, “One of my favourites.”

Evie snickers, looks to have remembered something, “Or the time you pretended to be _dead_.”

Shite, he’d utterly forgotten about that; they gave old Westhouse _such_ a fright. Jabs a finger her way, which she knocks aside. “Okay, now _that_ was your idea." 

Evie rolls her eyes fondly but doesn't counter, because she knows it's true. Jacob pushes her just a little more, brags, "I just happen to make a _fantastic_ corpse.”

She's amused, he can tell, pretending to be unruffled behind that tight-lipped facade; Jacob knows better. Evie wipes a strand of hair away from trailing in her eyes. 

"Don't make a habit of it. Whatever you and Theodore get up to, keep it behind closed doors."

Jacob walks past with a rather partial smirk, nudging her shoulder with his own. "Even when I'm _behind_ a closed door, _people_ still barge in."

She's behind him but he feels her watching his back. Probably scheming up a watertight excuse for her cheek while he rifles through a stack of parchment for some decent writing pages, hoping to bag a start on his work. 

"I apologise, for my haste." Surprising, but he'll take it. 

"Apology _gracefully_ accepted."

Though a moment later she takes a short breath, and Jacob can already hear the _but_.

"But, you really _should_ have locked the door."

He turns to her once more, scarred brow raised high to the ceiling.

"You're blaming _me_?" 

"Jacob," she smirks, stepping closer to set a hand on his back, peering over his shoulder at the mess on the table.

"Shut up and write your letters."

Evie squeezes his shoulder with a _crack_ —not enough to hurt, though he’s still a bit stiff from last night—and he shrugs her away with a grunt.

"Then you can see to your _pressing_ matters."

Watching her stroll from the carriage in the direction of their private one, frills and coattails flapping in her wake, Jacob shouts over the ever-present din of the rails, if only to have the last say.

"I live for these family chats, _very_ _informative_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terrible writer confession: I left this chapter unwritten until a week ago 😶 ...but, I actually really love the end result 😌
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Two-fingered gesture** : a sign that is considered very rude in the UK, made by holding your hand up with your palm facing towards you and your first and second fingers held in a V shape. It's basically saying 'fuck off'
> 
>  **Pleased as punch** : a phrase thought to have come about from Punch & Judy puppet shows, as Mr. Punch is unrepentant, delighted and self-satisfied with his evil deeds
> 
>  **Peeler** : slang term for a police officer. It originates from the right honourable prick Sir Robert Peel, who established the Metropolitan Police force in London in 1829. The term 'bobby' also comes from him: "Bobby Peeler"
> 
>  **Coffee-house** : Victorian slang term for a brothel
> 
>  **Gal-sneaker** : Victorian slang for a player, womaniser
> 
>  **"Want to drive a railway right through their parlour, Evie?"** : in the mid-late 1800s one of the many ways the local government and councils of London attempted to 'solve' the problem of the poor and their terrible living conditions, was not social reform or addressing any other forms of inequality: it was to build roads or railways right through the middle of their homes in order to disperse, not help them. The Metropolitan Board of Works took on the task, selling the land the slums were built upon to railway companies, as well as laying new roads right through the poorest districts of London and the surrounding suburbs. Taking a step back, the slums of the 19th century arose from overcrowding, with not enough affordable housing for low-income workers, as well as little to no building regulations. Previously terrible and non-profitable land was used in desperation, and with a lease of 21 years or less from landlords, the builders had even less incentive to create decent dwellings for that short of a time. Most lacked foundations, ventilation, and included no clean water or sanitary way to dispose of waste; people would be reduced to defecating in the streets. The Metropolitan Board of Works became too greedy with its evictions, removing thousands of families while the housing associations who were supposed to provide new homes were unable or unwilling to build. Land set aside for these homes specifically were left empty and undeveloped for years. But even if the new dwellings did end up being built, the once slum-dwellers were kept out by strict rules that they could not comply with, and by rents they couldn’t afford. There is no way to know the true amount of people who were evicted and left with nowhere to live, as the companies and landlords doing so had incentive not to record correct numbers. But it is estimated that from 1855 till the end of the century, upwards of 100,000 people were left homeless from this despicable practise. The following link is a great and concise resource if you want to learn more [[x]](https://www.historyextra.com/period/victorian/life-in-19th-century-slums-victorian-londons-homes-from-hell/)
> 
>  **Toffers** : Victorian slang for a high-class prostitute. Not to be confused with a 'Toff', a derogatory British slang term used for someone with an aristocratic background _*spits*_
> 
>  **Ankle biters** : small children
> 
>  **Knock/knocked for six** : to be overwhelmed or shocked by something. The phrase originates from the sport of cricket, where the similar expression 'hit for six' is used. This refers to the act of hitting the ball outside the boundary of the pitch without it touching the floor (similar to 'knocking it out of the park' in baseball), therefore gaining the max number of six runs for each bowl given. As an aside if the ball _does_ hit the floor but still leaves the boundary, you only get four points. Howzat?


	17. be still my foolish heart, don't ruin this on me

It takes Jacob a good ten minutes to reach the top of eleven Tabard Street.

But that's not because he's struggling, far from it. Just… _taking his time_ , on the equivalent of a jaunty stroll upwards, disinclined to break a sweat in his freshly pressed and perfumed shirt. 

Not mentioning his shoulder still twinges when he raises his arm any higher than his head, and there’s a pinch on his ribs with any twist of his torso. 

He may be going slower because of that.

There’s a small building yard beside Teddy’s flat, which has proven to be quite the helpful aid in his endeavour. A stack of scaffolding reaches two-thirds of the way to the top of the building; from there, built-in metal rungs sticking out from the brick lead the rest of the way up to the gently sloping roof. 

Climbing, Jacob's careful where he's placing his right hand, using this as an opportunity to strengthen, get used to it. 

He's not thinking of any of that during the climb, however.

His stomach is filled with panicking butterflies, an aerial stampede within his very guts. 

Each step closer to the man atop this castle brings Jacob a new flush. Thinking of Teddy, and what they did yesterday, what they're—with any luck— _going_ to do, tonight. 

Even the mere thought of _seeing_ the bloke, especially with last night’s ridiculous conclusion dancing around his head, sends his palms sweating.

As Jacob reaches the summit and steps out onto the tiles he stands tall, breathing a satisfied sigh into the pleasant breeze whipping lightly around him, blowing at his hair as he takes in the stunning view of the sunset. The smell of Southwark's smoke stacks and furnaces are ever present, but it's the end of the day so the air should turn cool and heavy, something more pleasant on the breeze.

No other building around even comes close to the same height as this. The elevated tracks leading outwards and into London Bridge station run not a hundred yards by the side of Ted's digs, and a bus depot looks to be across the road. Other than those, and the gasometer where Topping stages one of his ubiquitous fight clubs, it's virtually a plateau up here.

There looks to be a roof hatch as well, but it doesn't appear touched. Too much moss and no regular disturbances in the space around it. 

Jacob tries a different tack.

Ted had pointed to the gabled windows on the front of the building that first time, so he opts to head there.

A careful slide down the edge leads him to another lip, the two windows jutting out into the space where Jacob now stands. He takes a peek through the first, past parted curtains.

Hm. He can only see a door, and a bunch of clothes hung up in a neat little row on a string of a railing. His eyes flick over a few of the garments, colours, notices a couple hats and ties, a trio of waistcoats layered on one hanger. One looks familiar.

Ted's so darling.

Jacob steps on to the next window, and there he spies the man himself. 

Teddy’s laid on his bed reading a book, a stool pulled up beside him with a cuppa, his booted feet hanging off the edge of the mattress. 

Jacob doesn't have time to stop himself (will be the title of his follow-up memoirs) before he's tapping on the glass with a smile that's far too big. 

Through the pane Ted licks his thumb, flicks the page—then hears the summons and suddenly bolts upright, book flying from his hand. 

“ _Christ_ , Jacob!”

Teddy yelps at the sight of him, makes Jacob almost snort as he waves, cheery. His bloke’s stumbling off the bed and to the window to throw up the sash, nearly toppling the stool in his wake.

“Frye, what the _hell_ —”

“Hello to you too." 

Ted still looks a bit startled but he'll get through it. 

"Meet me on the roof."

Confusion befriends the startlement but Jacob’s not giving Teddy a chance to decline the offer. Already out of sight as Ted rattles off unheard bewilderment his way.

Straightening his collar and necklace, pushing back his hair to flow _just_ right, Jacob has a foolish few moments alone. Stuck on where to stand when Ted appears; next to the hatch? A few feet away? On the other side of the roof so Teddy has to walk to him? 

No, that's stupid. 

He ends up lingering about three feet away when he hears the bolt slide, the hatch creak, and the man himself appears.

"I was just admiring the view—" 

Teddy’s sharp little face emerges, still bewildered and dear from down below, then his shoulders, and the rest of him. 

Jacob grins. "You weren't lying."

The breeze catches those soft dark curls, sends them fluttering against his forehead as he steps gingerly across the tiles to Jacob. Up close, his cheeks are pink.

“How in _blazes_ ,” Ted murmurs, eyes on Jacob all the while, “did you get up here?”

"I climbed." 

Ted looks altogether unconvinced, like perhaps Jacob has fallen from the heavens instead of climbing, or was dropped by a large bird, that any other option sounds more plausible. 

Changing the subject before Ted can ask anything else on it, and they're burning a hole in him like being given a bob to spend when you're young: Jacob musters up the courage to whip out the small bundle of flowers stuffed in his belt at his back. One of the gardenia stems is crushed when he brings it round, frowning while fixing it, bright grin back as if it never left once he stands it up.

" _These_ are for you."

If Teddy looked affected before, he’s positively _blushing_ now: that soft mouth open, cheekbones splashed with colour, fairly glowing with surprise and, Jacob hopes, pleasure.

“Me?” His fella finally whispers, accepting the rather crushed and wilted bouquet as if it’s the most precious assortment of gold and gems. 

Greenie was right, it's a hit. 

"Of course. Silly sod."

Ted wrinkles his nose at the naming, only deepens the affection lodging warm in his breast as they stand on the roof, face to face. 

“Thank you,” Teddy finally says, shyly fidgeting a soft, fragrant petal between his fingers. “They’re beautiful.”

 _So are you_.

He contemplates very strongly saying that aloud, kicks himself when the moment passes and Ted's got his nose stuck in the flowers, lashes fluttering closed.

_Why're you acting like a jumbled fool._

Jacob clears his throat, grins when Ted looks up.

_No need to be nervous._

"You familiar with, their meanings?"

Jacob moves to sit down, turns to face the sunset in the west. Teddy hesitates only a moment before doing the same, carefully settling beside him so their thighs touch. The glow of the dying day covers that beautiful face, open collar, gilding him in warmth.

“Never learnt them, no.”

Jacob grins at the opportunity to share his newfound knowledge, leaning closer to push their shoulders together as he reaches over, touching each plant delicately as he goes.

" _Sorrel_ , is for affection. _Marjoram_ means joy, and happiness. And the gardenias mean… a secret."

Keeping his smile pinned in place, he hopes Ted didn't notice the year-long pause on _gardenias_ —for according to Greenie, the pretty white blooms are for secret _love_.

Jacob’s trying to stay away from that word for a while longer. 

You don't show your hand before you've even sat down at the table. 

"I learnt them especially."

Apparently Jacob Frye does.

He can feel Teddy’s gaze on him all the while, a sweet succession of awe and delight, bemusement even: and alright, so perhaps Jacob Frye doesn’t _look_ the sort of man who speaks the language of—of _like,_ by flowers, but. The subtleties of romance aren’t completely foreign to him yet. Especially when he asks his mates about it.

“You continue to surprise me,” Teddy says, in a voice that might be mocking, if his fondness weren’t so plain. 

Jacob's own tone _is_ teasing, but doesn't mean any mark against Ted. 

"I'm not just a thick lunk after all?"

Ted knocks their shoulders together, mouth tugging into a smirk. “Haven’t decided, yet.”

That's more like it, and Jacob’s slipping into something more comfortable now. He turns his head to face the sun, closing his eyes as the heat covers his own face, but still raises his eyebrows in question.

"And what would it take, to secure that decision in my favour, Mister Neill?"

Teddy’s fingers drift over his, light and brief as a moth on the wing. “Perhaps,” he says, voice half-carried away in the wind, “a kiss, to begin.”

When Ted speaks the word 'kiss', it sends a tingle over his skin despite the sun keeping him snug. Jacob tilts his head towards Teddy, raising one brow.

"And here I was, half-expecting a challenge…"

Ted doesn't say anything, just shows that clever grin, all the more maddening and beautiful in the golden and rose tint of the sky.

Suddenly sure of himself, Jacob shifts, planting his right hand on the tiles at the other side of Ted and leans in to press their lips.

It's even better than the first time. 

Soft and light, and achingly tender. Teddy tastes sweet, makes Jacob’s face heat more than the sun ever could, both of those thin, calloused hands sliding up to cup his jaw, Jacob's stubble scratching at Ted’s rough palms.

“ _Feck_ ,” Ted breathes into his mouth, like he wants to say more but kisses him again, instead. Draws back with the sun and a smile on his face.

" _Is that step two_ …?" Jacob tries, still close, has his head by Teddy's shoulder, not quite touching him, not quite nosing through those dark curls or running his teeth over his pinkened ears. 

Not _quite_. 

He pulls back.

Ted bites his lip, gaze hungry and half-lidded when he throws his glance away, somewhere safely over Jacob’s shoulder. “You tell me.”

He takes a pause. Letting Theo linger in the wait.

"I hope so."

He knows Ted likes him being direct, from what he’s seen at least, and the sly look the bloke flicks back at the bluntness says as much when Jacob speaks again.

"Haven't stopped thinking about you."

Ted’s voice has gone rough, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah?”

"Yeah…” For a reason he’s suddenly not so sure of himself, Jacob swerves away from the emotion building between them, overwhelmed. “...and how dire your left hook is."

“Christ, _this_ again.” Ted rolls his eyes, Jacob just couldn’t help himself. “Don’t make me knock you off the roof, Frye.”

Jacob sits back with a smirk, hiding disappointment in himself for being pigeon-livered at the last moment. "Little bit of murder to kick off the occasion, how quaint." 

“Seems the sort of thing you’d appreciate.”

He takes that as a compliment, sinks down on his elbows before lying flat on the tiles, propping his left hand behind his head to turn his smile up to Teddy. Bites his lip as he angles to see the very one he's speaking of. 

"I appreciate a fit bloke with an open collar."

“Look in a mirror, then,” Ted snorts, reaching down to swipe his fingers lazily through Jacob’s hair. Like it’s his to touch, as often and as easily as he wants.

It is.

He shuts his eyes at the feeling, Ted continues. Jacob’s never had anyone do this, not outside of embarrassingly quick fumbles and unpleasant happenings behind pubs.

Almost all of them, behind pubs. 

They don't count, they don't _exist_ when Teddy’s here. Can't hold a candle to the affection and care he feels even with something as simple as fingers through his hair. 

Jacob hums happily in appreciation.

“If I’d have known you fancy this so much, I’d have done it sooner.”

Ted takes his hand away, and then he’s back again even sweeter, fingers scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Shuts you _right_ up.”

He knows Ted loves him talking, everyone does, so he's not taking him seriously. Jacob pops an eye open, watching his guy for a quiet couple of seconds, growing a smirk. 

"I know what shuts _you_ up."

Teddy arches a brow, daring him to finish.

"A great, big, _impressive_ … bunch of flowers."

“You’re not wrong,” Ted finally agrees, rubbing a thumb over yesterday’s rosy bruise peeking out from Jacob’s collar. 

The one that _he_ put there. 

Every glimpse in a mirror, a shop window he's passed, the smirks on his Rooks' faces throughout the carriage today, even Evie’s uncalled-for scolding, Jacob's seen it, knows it's there. Evidence of what they did together. 

It's not only kept in his head, it's out for the world to see.

And he's delighted with it.

Teddy's trailing his hand higher, brushing Jacob’s cheek, thumb tracking down the thick scar on his jaw. 

He's well past being ashamed of that particular blemish, but it's still heartening to have Theo _not drop a_ comment on it.

Jacob shifts his arm, leaving a space where Teddy could easily lay at his side, raising his eyebrows in silent invitation.

"I've got a question for you."

With a not-so-silent inquiry. 

His fella looks slowly over Jacob’s gentle smile, his open arm before carefully easing down, slotting warm against his side. Seems to puzzle for a moment what to do with his hands, resting one on his own belly, the other laid helplessly to the side, upturned against the tiles. Jacob wants to take it up.

“Go on, then.”

Well. Jacob has a myriad of questions for his fella, but he’s unsure which to kick off with. He goes for something they've touched on before, curling the arm Teddy’s leant on further around his shoulders.

"How'd you meet Ned?"

He’s not expecting Teddy‘s laugh: an almost embarrassed cough, paired sweetly with a flustered-sounding chuckle. “I, ah. I picked his pocket, round the Mint. Was goin’ hungry a few days and he’s a small guy, I thought—well. He caught me.”

Ted's lightness makes Jacob catch a smile.

"So, you picked it _or_ he caught you? Can't have both."

The man is silent for a moment, like he’s considering something yet unsaid. “I prigged him, sure enough. Took him time to realise, but he remembered my face, tracked me down. I was… I _used_ to, when…” 

Ted stumbles over his words, the thickness of his Irish roots coming out as he turns his face away.

“Used to rent, ‘round there. Ned caught me suckin’ a bloke in an alley. Waited till I finished and asked for his wallet back.”

Surprised, and now understanding his fella’s hesitation, Jacob tilts his head to see Teddy.

He's still turned aside. 

There's absolutely no shame to be found in doing something to keep yourself alive, fed. Happy, even. 

Jacob makes sure to keep his tone the same, still inject that joviality of before. He doesn’t want to be insensitive, or hurt Theo, and gently squeezes his arm instead, reassuring.

"I hope you didn't apologise if you gave it back."

There’s a warmth when Ted leans into him, turns his face up to the sky; and Jacob knows he said the right thing. “Nuh. Kept the quid he had on him, too. And then he offered me a job.”

Jacob follows his lead, looks up into the clouds trailing pink through the darkening sky: fond, and grateful. 

"Wynert; always the pragmatist."

Ted huffs, soft against his side. “Hires me on the spot, like. Didn’t even know I could lockpick till after.”

He's pleased to hear it, glad Teddy’s past that embarrassment of earlier. There’s a comfortable beat of silence between them then—nothing but the far-off roll of carriages, trains whistling their comings and goings, a million more sounds of the city pass by—until Jacob asks, carefully.

"Do you, still…?"

It’s vague enough, but Ted’s a sharp one, takes his meaning without needing to spell it out. 

“Not for an age. Ned pays well, and…” Teddy shrugs against him, twitching empty fingers with an ironic sort of smile. “Good men are hard to find.”

"And even if you find one, you never want to talk to him." 

Jacob’s smirk is waiting when Teddy cranes his head to look at him, dark eyes rolling as predicted.

“Sure, and what am I doin’ now, then?” 

"This is entirely _my_ doing. You're welcome."

“Oh yes,” Ted deadpans, reaching up to tweak Jacob’s gaping collar. “Thank you _ever_ so.”

Teddy’s fingers graze down his chest, seeming to linger. Jacob's gazing up at the sky with a grin shiny enough to rival the first pinpricks of starlight hanging high above them, knowing Teddy really _is_ grateful. 

His fella’s quiet, for a while, probably enjoying the view just like Jacob. Then Ted shifts, leans in to nibble at Jacob’s ear, smear lips against his throat. Pulling him closer by the arm wrapped round, Jacob splays his hand at Ted’s waist and reciprocates. 

Drives him quietly mad, how easy they are together—laid here against the roof tiles, far above the rest of Southwark, they can touch and sigh like lovers. Like this between them matters, _means_ something. 

He’s too far gone for it to be anything else, quietly hoping this feels the same for Ted.

Those long fingers find his lucky shilling, turn it over in his palm, asking an unspoken question. 

Jacob doesn’t even hesitate to answer.

"From my first, proper fight." 

Jacob remembers, down to the exact moment the coin was handed over. The proud look on her face made him happier than he thinks he's ever been.

"Evie gave it to me. My share of her winnings."

Teddy’s hand stills, then traces lightly over his chest, his heart. 

“Jacob Frye,” he mutters, grinning at his neck. “You’re soft as shite.”

Jacob gusts out an incredulous laugh, surprised, pinching Teddy’s butcher-blade of a hip bone through his shirt to make him squirm, growling mock-dangerously.

“I’ve also got a reputation to consider— _keep that to yourself_.”

Writhing against his ribs, Ted nips roughly at his ear, stubborn on-bloody-purpose. 

“Cat’s out o’the bag, I’m afraid.”

He gasps at the _tug_ of Ted’s teeth, the way he’s pushing against Jacob’s flank. He decides to sort this out and rolls into it, forcing them both over. They end up just as he’d hoped: Jacob on top, fitting himself right between his bloke’s fine legs. 

Now _he's_ the one kissing roughly while his man’s hands rove up and under his waistcoat, his shirt. Presses his weight down on Ted's hips and groans at the contact, having thought of doing little else since he woke this morning.

Grinding down between Teddy’s open thighs and feeling them both shudder, sucking at his lip. Ted’s hands slide down to cup his arse, making Jacob wish they weren’t so clothed up here, alone among the clouds.

"I meant—what I said before.” At the soft skin beneath his ear, Jacob's lapping delightful kisses that turn quickly into a bite, earnest in his desperation. "Haven't stopped thinking of you."

“Thought about you too,” Ted groans low, like it’s a secret to be shared. “All today. _Last night_.”

Jacob chuckles crudely at the idea; Teddy, alone with naught but Jacob in his head, the possibilities too numerous to count. “ _Yeah_?”

Teddy grunts an affirmative into his mouth, and when they finally part Jacob’s intrigued. 

“Anything, _in particular_?”

His fella’s scarcely a breath away, lips soft and wet while he twists long fingers into Jacob’s hair, tells him bold.

“Yeah. I’d like to take your cock.”

Jacob's eyes widen ever so, clearly enough for Teddy to realise the effect his reveal has had; those brown eyes dark as pitch, deep as the sea, Jacob willingly drowns in them. 

He's _absolutely_ thought the same, was thinking of it yesterday while they pulled and sucked each other off, and before, too many times to count… 

Breathless, distracted by his own racing thoughts and _longing_ , a nine-year itch is about to get scratched; he’s searching Teddy's face for any signs of regret. 

" _I want that_."

“Well,” Ted breathes, and his voice is as rough and wanting as it’s ever been, a rudder scraping the seabed of Jacob’s resolve. “I have a bed downstairs, if you’d like to act on it.”

Would he ever.

Before he even knows what he's doing Jacob's shifting back on his knees, pushing to stand and offers Ted a hand up off the tiles, speaking with a little bit more urgency than usual.

"No time like the present."

* * *

  
They make it down the ladder, though he barely remembers it after—they must do, Jacob climbing hastily down after Theo, giddy with anticipation as Teddy locks the door behind them, the deepening dusk filling the room.

Jacob’s eyes trace Theo’s lithe form as he moves past, though it's not long before his attention is overpowered by curiosity, casting a gander about the cosy garret he's found himself in. 

Most of his mind is fogged over by an insatiable appetite sparked on the roof and fanned by what they’re about to do, but there’s interest _about_ Ted vying its corner too. 

As Theo brings a bloom of light to the room, Jacob notes a dinky desk sat to his right. Teddy placed his handful of flowers there as he stepped by, alongside a set of writing tools put neatly away, all spick-and-span like. 

The double bed dominates the remainder of the room, and over in the corner sits a small parlour stove, which Ted looks to be bringing to life.

"Neat as a pin. Why did I expect nothing less?"

Ted slants him a _look_ from where he’s knelt by the stove, one that’s both unabashedly fond and sceptical at once—and Jacob beams, as his man pokes and prods the little grate alight.

“Should be warmer in here soon,” Teddy offers instead, rising to brush spotless hands on his thighs. 

"I'll say."

Jacob takes a few steps closer, catching sight of a drawing, some papers on the wall, but then Teddy’s right in front of him and the room they're standing in melts away.

“Frye,” he starts, and closes the gap between them, hands already sliding to his face, dragging him in for a deep, messy kiss that lays all intentions bare. “ _Jacob_.”

He's tugging Ted closer by his hips, fitting them together during another drawn out embrace. Teddy's speaking his name again and it fills him up, makes him feel _important_ and _wanted_ , two things he's been chasing most of his life. 

“ _Ted—or_ , _would you rather_ , _Theo_?”

His fella curls a hand at his jaw and slips him some tongue, only drawing back when they’re both gasping hard. “Both,” he says, and then amends, “ _Theo_ , I like, hearing it from your lips—” But the rest of his thought is lost, poured into Jacob’s mouth instead, Ted's fingers already fumbling at Jacob's waistcoat.

He follows suit and reaches for Ted's braces, slipping them both off his shoulders for his man to shrug out of them easily. He feels like _ripping_ _off_ Teddy’s shirt to save some time, it'd be simpler, not to mention more dramatic. But then again Jacob doesn't want to ruin his fella's clothes… so starts hurriedly on the buttons, Ted's already done with Jacob’s waistcoat, halfway down his shirt by now.

Reaching the last hole, Teddy’s shirt is gaping, and Jacob can finally, clearly see his necklace. The thin gold chain ends in a rounded pendant, a little smaller than his shilling, and a whole lot more valuable. Carved within the gold circle is an intricate celtic cross, with a tiny white stone in the centre.

Doesn’t really have time to ask on it however, as Ted's tugging down Jacob's sleeves, tosses the shirt to the floor. It's then no time at all before their boots are unlaced and cast aside, long forgotten when Ted resumes their messy kiss and blindly backs Jacob into the edge of his mattress, pushing him to sit, legs splayed with his fella well in between. 

“Ey, Jacob,” Ted murmurs, sinking to his knees and starting on his belt, hands busy while he dips his tongue between Jacob’s ribs. He imagines it wrapped around his cock. “Lemme take care of you, yeah?”

“ _Yeah_.”

He answers without thinking, allowing Teddy to unbuckle him all the way, even slide out his belt, flinging it unwanted to the floor behind before Jacob remembers, “But, I thought, _we_ …?”

He can feel Ted grinning against his belly, already easing his trousers down over his hips, his thighs. “We will, yeah. Long as you’re willing, I’m yours all night.”

 _Willing?_

Lying back on the covers and baring all, Teddy slides Jacob’s trousers off the rest of the way. He turns a private, triumphant little smile up to the ceiling, basking in being completely starkers on Theo’s bed, a man who seems devoted to making him feel good. 

Said tease is currently sliding hands up his thighs, along the inside of his hips, pressing those slim fingers into the meat of Jacob’s waist and holding him fast, Ted’s breath warm on his stomach. 

Jacob trembles with anticipation: he wants Teddy _now_ , even though he knows being at his mercy is gratification in itself.

Until Theo gets his lips around the head of his cock for the second time in as many days, flicking his tongue at Jacob’s slit and _moaning_ , and Jacob nearly bucks off the bed. Manages to sink his fingers in those dark curls, hold on for his life as everything below his waist melts, just fucking _dissolves_ in a haze of pleasure.

The noises, God, the _sounds_ Theo’s making are enough to shove him to the edge of something dire. He was never so loud in the ring, but now he’s _untamed_ , and Jacob joins him, allowing everything he's feeling out through his open mouth.

He lets himself be loved, lavished with care: he can feel Ted stroking thumbs tenderly over his thighs, hands as gentle as his mouth is not. 

“That’s it,” Ted murmurs, as Jacob’s resolve finally crumbles and he gasps, begins to fuck his mouth in earnest. He feels like a pillar of fire, like he’ll burn away to ash and still remember this, the slick and slide of his man’s lips, the way it feels to be _consumed_ within an inch of his fucking soul; nothing else comes close. 

He’s trembling when Theo eases back, pulls off his cock with a wet, messy slurp and a gentle squeeze to his twitching dick. Kisses soft at the inside of Jacob’s thigh.

“Lay back for me, darlin’. Head on the pillow.”

Forcing his heavy limbs to move, Jacob peels himself from the covers and crawls backwards, following exactly as Teddy said. 

Jacob doesn’t take his eyes off him, watching his man strip down, bare and _beautiful_. 

Soft creamy planes and sharp angles make up his entirety, pale skin dotted with moles that look like the starlight far above them. Jacob wants to touch the whole of him, every inch, hold those long limbs against himself and fill them both up with one another, _love him_ , and then...

“ _What’s_ this?” 

The last thing Theo loses is his open shirt, and once it hits the floor Jacob spots the shine like a magpie, winking in the lamplight. He sits up, reaches for his bloke and drags him onto the bed. Teddy settles on his knees, straddling Jacob’s hips, brings the piercing running through his fella’s left nipple precisely in line with his lips. 

Jacob glances from it up to Ted’s satisfied smirk, brow quirked, playful. “Full of surprises, Theo.”

“Just you _wait_.”

His hands are around Teddy’s back now, splayed beneath his jutting shoulder blades, drawing him closer into Jacob’s waiting mouth. The metal is warm and thick, he runs his tongue along the length of the ring, mindful when he _tweaks_ it with his teeth. Flicking the tip in the centre, Jacob grins through his tease as Theo grips his hair, gasping and pushing his hard cock against Jacob’s stomach. 

“ _Feck_ , _yeah_ ,” he whispers, rolling his hips and writhing at Jacob’s lips, curling both arms around his broad shoulders like he can’t bear to let go. Makes Jacob’s lungs ache, that someone can hold him like this and _mean_ it. 

“How d’you want me,” Theo breathes against Jacob’s forehead, lips dragging slow over his knife-scar, sweeter than anything he could dream.

“… _hm_?” Takes a second for the fog of his mind to clear away, enough to understand the question at least. 

“Uh… how do, how do _you_ want, to be?” 

And here it finally is.

The point where his hand gets thrown down, shown to the entire table; the revelation that he’s bluffing.

Ted’s face says as much, looking confused but _mostly_ amused once he realises, he hopes. 

Jacob purposely loses Teddy’s eye, knowing he’s very much pink-cheeked, and it’s _not_ from their fun so far. 

Feeling like a dumb kid, inexperienced and useless, he admits the worst.

“I’ve never done this before.”

It’s hard to say. Harder to hear aloud, heart thudding pitifully in his ears: inexperience and pride are strange bedfellows indeed.

But there’s a gentle kiss at Jacob’s jaw, urging him not to hide his face when Theo leans in, murmurs warm at the shell of his ear. 

“ _Let me show you_.” 

Taking up his unharmed hand, Theo’s brushing lips over his skin, scars and freckles both. And then he pulls Jacob’s wrist to him, eyes dark and hot with lust, and sucks two fingers into his mouth. 

He’s staring as Teddy slicks them up and down, all the way to his knuckles and back, never once taking his eyes from Jacob’s. He doesn’t know how, but this is a hundred-times more intimate than sucking his dick; he makes Jacob’s blood run hot and cold all at once.

Ted carries on a while longer, swirling his tongue at Jacob’s fingertips, teasing him with teeth before turning him loose, a bit breathless. 

“Like this,” he says, and takes Jacob’s hand again, pulling it around to the curve of his arse. Nudges his spit-slick fingers along the cleft, guiding him where to touch, till he’s skimming lightly over Theo’s hole. 

“ _Feck_ ,” Ted gasps, arching up, then down against his palm. “ _Need you, in me_.”

“ _Yeah_ — _yes,_ ” Seems he's a bit _too_ eager when Ted gasps again, sharp, and _not_ in the same way.

“One— _ah!_ —at a time, darlin’.”

He winces in apology. Jacob’s tongue feels thick, he wants to say—oh, _so many things_ , but Theo’s here inside his arms and he wants so much to love him, to follow where he leads—and so he kisses at his shoulder, more careful this time and slowly eases a finger past his rim, this time it’s better. 

Theo’s slick inside already, and Jacob’s untried but knows enough, enough to know that doesn’t happen by itself.

“ _Did you fuck yourself before I got here_?” 

He’s breathless as the words leave his lips, pushing all the way to his second knuckle, catching Teddy’s eye as the man writhes in his lap. 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Theo groans, rocking back on his hand, cock still pushing at his belly. “Wanted to be, _ready_ for ya. Give us another.”

Jacob’s biting a smile hard into his lip, so much it hurts, might reopen the wound, but he doesn’t care. He pulls his finger out _just_ enough to slip his second in alongside, eases them both deeper in Teddy. 

“Curl your fingers? Up a bit—like— _just like that_.”

Teddy seems to relax then; Jacob didn’t realise he was holding himself so tense. Theo’s rolling his hips looser, fucking himself on Jacob’s hand as his fingers curl inside. He marvels at the noises, the way Ted grips him harder, that _he’s_ making his fella feel this good. Tells him, adoringly.

“ _You’re the best thing I’ve ever seen_ —and I’ve been tar-barrel racing.”

Theo laughs, a choked, high sound into Jacob’s neck. “Don’t think I wanna know what that is.” 

“Probably best.” Ted nips tender at his throat, just below where his bruise sits; Jacob hopes he’s making it bigger, fucks his fingers that bit deeper. 

He wants touching, feels like a century since Teddy had his lips around his cock. So Jacob takes himself in hand, stroking roughly when Theo’s voice sounds in his ear. 

“ _Greedy man_.”

He blinks, not even realising he’d closed his eyes, opening them to find Teddy looking thoroughly entertained. “Can’t even wait for my arsehole.”

Jacob huffs a laugh, flustered, as Theo reaches between them and gently pulls his hand away, planting it on his hip instead. 

“Hold off another minute and I’ll sit on your cock.”

 _God damn_.

Another breathless exhale, then Teddy’s telling Jacob he can take _three_ , and who is he to say no to such a request? 

“Oil first. Under the pillow, big fella.”

Oh, right. _Of course_.

Reaching behind is a bit of a blind balancing act but he manages it, discovers a small glass bottle, corked and full to the brim. Teddy takes it from him with shaking hands. 

“Jacob, _fingers_.”

He slides them free with a squelching sound that makes him blush, offering them to Theo and scarcely able to believe he’s here, that this is happening while his man pours slick over him. It’s cool to the touch, smells faint and sweet as Teddy douses his own fingers, wrapping his hand around Jacob’s shaft. Oiling him up, maddeningly slow, and nowhere _near_ enough to bring him off.

“I feel you’re doing this on purpose.”

Theo just slants him a lazy look up through his lashes, dangerously dark and _definitely_ on-purpose. 

“Doin’ what?”

“Fucker.”

Smirking at each other, he grips Teddy’s thigh with his free hand, keeping the bandages there well away from the oil, and slides it around to cup Ted’s arse instead. Sends his oil-slick one round the other side, catching his fella’s eye, thrumming with anticipation. “All three?”

“Mm. _I can take it_.”

And take it he does. Jacob makes sure to be tender, slow, starting with one and only then adding the others. It’s _so_ much easier this time, and when he curls his fingers on the first full push in, Teddy gasps. Jacob’s watching every note hit his fine face, makes him feel bold seeing his man so affected, that he’s not the only one as colour rises in Ted’s cheeks.

“ _Oh_ , _Jacob_.” Theo _whimpers_ , fucking himself hard and fast enough to rock them both, leaning in for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. “ _Feck me_ , almost _there_...”

He kisses back clumsily, focussing more on what his hand is doing and giving it to Ted _good_ , breathless through a grin. 

“ _I have another if you want it, though, I’m fastly running out_.”

“No, _no_ —got somethin’ better in mind.”

Teddy’s panting, beautiful face strained as he levers himself over Jacob, palms soft and flat against his shoulders, pushing him down till his back hits the mattress. “ _Lie back, yeah_?”

He goes willingly, settling in and canting his hips, stroking down Teddy’s thighs now his hand’s free and leaving a trail of oil. Not that he’s looking, because everything about him is taken up by his bloke: the way Theo’s biting his bottom lip raw, resettling those pale knees on either side of Jacob’s hips, digging into the faded quilt.

“ _Jacob_. If—if you want me to _stop_ , just. Tap my knee.”

His dick _aches_ , fitting up hot and snug behind Theo’s balls and Jacob forces his thoughts to something else, _anything_ else before he loses it completely and just starts blindly fucking his fella’s thighs.

“ _Stop_. Knee. _Got it._ ”

And then he’s not thinking anything at all, because Teddy’s perfect hand is firm around his cock, and Jacob watches him through a lovestruck haze as the man nestles his pert little arse on Jacob’s dick, and just… _sinks down_ , hips twitching in tiny, desperate thrusts, soft pained moans of _oh, oh_ dropping from his lips. 

It’s the push _in_ that breaks his cry in half, gasping as his cock’s _engulfed_ inside Theo’s tight arse—he _knew_ it was sublime, he knew _he_ was, that he wanted this and now it’s true and _oh fuck he’s doing this_.

Jacob watches Theo take the whole of his prick, inch by fucking inch till he’s seated hot and full against the cradle of Jacob’s thighs, and he could come already at the goddamn _sight_ , the _thought_ that _this is them_ , _together_.

“ _Jaysus_ ,” Ted groans as if reading his mind, tipping forward, his necklace glinting as the pendant dangles between them, trails on Jacob’s chest. Theo's bracing himself against there too, a hand over Jacob’s racing heart. Lost and found with him at once.

He's swamped with such a wave of overwhelming affection, of _awe_ for this beautiful man, he can’t drag his eyes from him—and then Theo begins to move.

The sensation is _shattering_. Coupled with the sight of his bloke’s pretty lips parted, the arch of his spine as he rides Jacob _so well_ , bucking shallow and easy before taking him deeper… 

It’s everything he dreamt this would be.

He tips his head back as his fella gets faster, Teddy’s moving and pushing keener and Jacob starts matching that movement too. His hands grasp at Theo’s slight waist to hold him, thumbs hooked over his hip bones and pressing in, having coveted this for so long. 

“Fuck, Theo—yes— _fuck me good_.”

When Teddy laughs, it’s wild and gasping, like Jacob’s stealing his breath with every thrust. He worries for a fleeting moment that Ted's somehow laughing at his inexperience, but of course not.

“You’re _so—Christ_ , if you could only _see yourself_ —you’re like the _feckin’_ _sun_.” His head is thrown back, tangled curls askew, joy etched in every line of his face. “Can’t believe you’re _mine_.”

Jacob laughs too, smile filled with happiness, and unable to believe it himself. 

_He's Teddy’s_.

“I quite like the— _view_ — _I_ have _here_.” 

And on the last word Jacob slaps Ted’s arse, the oil still on his hand helping the delicious _clap_ sound over their breathy cacophony of noises and the _creak_ of the bed frame. 

Jacob sucks in an appreciative gust, _loving_ it. 

“ _Ooh_ , listen to _that_.” 

Does it again before Ted responds, even _harder_.

“ _Feck_! _Oh yes_ , _right_ _there_.” 

And then there’s only them, the soft wet slap of skin-on-skin while Teddy rides him in earnest, cock leaking on Jacob’s stomach with every thrust. He’s doing _something_ with his hips, a swiveling, _magical_ something that has Jacob seeing stars on the ceiling, barely hears Theo wondering, breathless.

“Is _this_ —does it feel _good_? _Want to be so good for you, Jacob_...”

He could shed tears at Ted's words, cry from joy or disbelief, both would fit.

"You're good— _so good_. Gonna take you home—sit you on my mantle."

Jacob curls his hand around Theo’s prick, licks his lips hungrily. He's sorry he's neglected it for so long, but now plans on rectifying that mistake. 

He begins jerking Teddy with every upwards _thrust_ of his hips, letting out a hitched moan with each turn. This always gets him off nicer when he can _hear_ the effect as well as see it, pushing himself and Ted further with the sounds filling their ears.

“Oh, _oh_ , _darlin’ yes_ ,” Ted’s gazing at him like he’s something holy, like Jacob’s awakened some deep well in him he didn’t know was there. 

“You’re _so_ feckin’—from the _moment I saw you_ ,” he sobs, squeezing back on Jacob’s cock, bucking up into his fist, “I _wanted_ this. _I wanted you_ , and you— _saved me_ , body and soul. _You saved me_.”

Jacob’s listening to Teddy’s earnest truth, elated hearing the adoration in his voice, the—dare he say it— _love_ , saturating the air between them.

But the smallest of doubts spark across his thoughts, after the initial high: that Ted’s doing this as a _thank you_ , perhaps he thinks he _has_ to do it? Because Jacob wants it so badly— _because_ _Jacob_ _saved_ _him—_

He has to clarify.

"I'd do it _a_ _thousand times over_ —even if—you _didn't_ want me."

He’s wild and terrified, and desperate to show Theo that he means it truly, that he can barely _breathe_ for wanting him. The words leap from his throat like the greatest height, with blind faith that he’ll land safely—

“— _I love you_.”

Oh...

 _Fuck_.

He said it aloud, for people with ears to hear. 

Jacob, you _absolute_ _pillock_.

Teddy’s eyes are wide and stunned, his thin chest heaving with effort as he leans close, trembling hands on Jacob’s face. Their frantic rocking slows then stills, till there’s only panting breaths between them, the hot deep throb where their bodies are joined.

Theo looks to be searching Jacob’s gaze; for what, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t know if he did the right thing, or the wrong. Only knows he’s been told so rarely that he’s loved, his whole life through: Jacob always welcomed those precious words, held tight to their meaning, would have gladly smothered himself in them if he could.

If sharing his own now makes him the fool... then, he’ll gladly take that title.

It’s moments only, or perhaps it’s years before Ted’s answer comes. Thumbing along the seam of Jacob’s kiss-swollen lips before meeting him there, taking his mouth so tenderly it almost hurts—and Jacob clings to him, aching to hear his love echoed back. He knows Theo is a man of few words, resigns himself that they may not come just yet. 

Or at all.

Doesn’t change how he feels, doesn’t change the _love_ pulsing through his veins with every breath, kissing Theo for all he’s worth, barely hearing the words slipped onto his tongue. They make no sense to him, raw and lyrical sounds with no meaning, but Theo whispers into his mouth, over and over, beginning to move again—

_Irish._

_Christ_ , he’s speaking _Irish._

Jacob slips his right hand around Teddy’s back to hold him close, keep him here, never leave. Trap the soft, secret words between their shifting bodies. Jacob will only ever take them as a gift, won’t even ask what they mean once this is through; they’re Teddy’s to share and Jacob’s lucky enough to hear them. 

Picking up their rhythm, canting his hips, he slips a hold round Theo’s cock, stroking along in time with their flow. He wants this to feel as good as before, as _amazing_ a feeling he’s able to give to this man he loves... and maybe doing this will help Theo forget the blunder of mere seconds ago. 

This new angle seems to be even better, perfect for kissing and knocking the breath from his bloke at once, hitting _just_ right for Ted if the way he’s taking Jacob is any clue, that sweet mouth open as he writhes on his dick.

“ _Ah_ , _ah_ , Ja- _acob_ , _feck_ —”

He kisses at Teddy’s jaw, just missing his mouth, voice low and grinning to himself as Ted gets louder. “ _Yeah_? _You like getting fucked by me_?”

“ _Jaysus feckin’ Christ, yes_ —”

Teddy starts rolling his hips with a wildness unseen, rubbing their bellies together and pushing Jacob to work harder at wanking him off; thumbing the head of his cock, slit dripping with unspilled cum. 

“ _Louder for me_ — _otherwise I’ll stop_.” 

He has absolutely no intention of stopping, but the threat is enough to make Teddy send him a _look_ , fighting with the defiance Jacob’s exuding, showing that he just _might_. 

Theo’s lashes flutter closed, clearly disbelieving Jacob’s brass even as he groans, low and _loud_ enough to shake the bed. Jacob rewards him with a faster hand, harder thrusts, making his own noises to rival Theo’s, almost to his end because those thickly cadenced _moans_ are _really_ fucking doing it for him.

“ _Theo_ , bloody _hell_ —”

He gets no reply, only more exquisite music and a tightening at the base of his gut— _fuck_.

“ _Ah, Ted_ —’m gonna _come_.”

“ _God, yeah_ ,” Ted whispers, arching up enough to drag it right out of him, and then Jacob’s _gone_.

He mentally apologises for letting go of Theo’s dick but _fucking hell_ —he grabs his bloke’s waist and ruts up into him, an unheeded cry on his lips when he comes. Vaguely thinks he hears Ted laugh, miles away, but Jacob has his eyes shut tight, head tipped back so far he’s hitting the headboard— _is that why it’s called that_ —keeps driving his cock in deep and hopes this is still good for Teddy— 

“ _Theo_ —oh _yes-yes-yes_ — _fuck, me..._ ”

Jacob’s lost, wandering a bliss-filled haze of everything he’s ever wanted, hips still twitching weakly in Teddy as he falls back down from a great height. He’s spent but unable to part from him, or the sweet, aching sounds as Teddy roughly tugs his own cock, pink mouth open in a wordless cry as he rocks against Jacob, clenching around him.

Managing to gain a modicum of sense, it sticks around long enough for him to know he should be helping. Grabs a hold of Ted’s forearm and his man stills, dazed and gasping until Jacob swaps their hands, starts up quickly and smoothly pulling Theo off, giving him no time to argue, or think. 

Teddy only groans his name, and Jacob grins drunkenly in reply.

“ _Kiss me, Theo_.”

Ted’s down on his lips in an instant, and to call it a messy kiss isn't even doing it justice—Theo barely seems to know what to do with himself, let alone his mouth, panting and sobbing as Jacob jerks his cock with long, easy strokes between them, working his hips while he's still hard inside him. 

This worked yesterday, so let’s try it again: turning his head to nose through Teddy’s dampened hair, “ _Theo_ …” trailing lips over the shell of his ear, “ _...spill your cum on me_.”

“ _Jacob_ —!” 

Like a charm.

Jacob’s grinning so wide his cheeks ache, pumping his fist while Teddy paints his belly, his chest, his _chin_ with hot splatters of pearly cum, salty and thick where he licks his lips, wanting to taste. Theo whines, slumping against his chest and smearing the mess between them, while Jacob rubs a hand down his jutting spine, staring at the ceiling with stars in his eyes.

“ _Oh_ ,” Ted sobs, and Jacob can’t help it, he _laughs_ —he’s bloody _ecstatic_ , so happy he’s drunk with it, with this man in his arms and his heart and his _life_.

He’s got cum in his beard, and the thought makes him laugh all the louder, hoarse and wrecked and _happy_.

“ _Jaysus,_ Jacob _._ ” Ted pants into his neck, “ _Think ya killed me_.”

He reaches up and wipes the spunk from his face, licks it off his fingers before burying them in his bloke’s frazzled hair. Stroking down the nape of Teddy’s neck, feels the sweat beading there. 

“Is a resurrection in order?”

“ _Too late_ ,” Ted wheezes against his shoulder, mouthing kisses at his skin. “ _Go on without me.”_

“When have you _ever_ known me to do that...”

Teddy shifts his hips just enough for Jacob’s dick to ease out of him, flopping against his lower belly as Ted settles back down with a pitiful sound. He lays tender fingertips over Jacob’s lips.

“ _Never_.”

“Hm.” Satisfied, Jacob melts into the mattress. The sheets underneath are soaked with sweat, so warm in here it’s almost unbearable, what with the stove burning and Ted sandwiching him into the covers. 

He couldn’t care less.

Teddy’s slowly showering a small section of his neck with tiny wet kisses, sends a tingle all the way through Jacob’s exhausted body. Having Theo atop him, laid here in the quiet and cosy room, just the two of them… it’s all he’s wanted. To be held, not judged… _loved_ … 

Oh, shit.

Jacob suddenly and acutely recalls admitting to Teddy that he _loves him_. 

Goes a bit stiff, and not in the good way.

“I… Ted... about, _before_...” 

“I _know_ ,” Teddy whispers, cutting off whatever fumbled words were coming next, curling a hand in his hair. “Jacob. _Mo ghrá_.”

He lets the reassuring tone wash over him, the fact that Ted at once knew of what he spoke but he's still here, laid on top of him, being held… Theo's ease helps Jacob feel the same.

And whatever was muttered in his native tongue, that's a bonus.

He holds his man tighter, stroking one hand along his ribs. The other nestling at the small of his back. 

He's thinking _so much_ , on if he should say it again. Doesn’t know the right answer. Perhaps there isn't one.

Teddy kisses his cheek, soft and fond, petting lazy fingers through Jacob’s sex-wild hair. “Stay here, I’ll get us a flannel.”

Jacob reluctantly allows Theo to slip away, propping up on his elbows to take stock of the damage: he’s _covered_ in love bites, and there’s a matching sheen of drying cum down the front of both their chests. Makes Jacob laugh, dropping back to the covers with a weary grin, eyes squeezed shut and _utterly_ disinclined to move.

“ _Lookit you_ ,” Ted murmurs; Jacob can hear his smirk from across the room, over soft splashing sounds at the basin. “Ridden _hard_ , and put away wet.”

He chuckles, light and easy as he steals a peek at Theo: takes in the sharp lean lines of him, his back to Jacob where he stands, naked before the washstand. It’s gone dark out the windows now, wrapped their little nest in the safe cover of night. 

"I didn't appoint you my coachman for nothing."

Teddy huffs, mattress dipping as he climbs back into bed, brandishing the promised flannel. “I _hate_ driving, you know.” 

Jacob _didn’t_ know, but files the little tidbit safely away in his growing tally of _Theo_ , allowing himself to be gently manhandled while his fella scrubs him clean. He wants to know more, wants to know _everything_ , so he asks.

“Any particular reason for that?”

Ted wrinkles his nose as he cups Jacob’s chin, no doubt cleaning the crust from his stubble. “I like to walk.”

 _You walked straight into my heart_.

 _Bleeding hell_ , Jacob. _Never_ say that aloud.

Making his way further down, Ted’s wiping off his chest and across his stomach, while Jacob sneaks him a look, only _half_ serious and echoing the day prior in the ring. 

“So, whad'ya say... round _two_?”

Maybe not his wisest line as Theo slides the flannel between his thighs, looking positively wicked.

“Completely knacked, and _still_ gaggin’ for it.”

Ted’s careful, but it still makes him suck in a breath when his balls are cupped with the damp cloth. He’s gonna need a _few_ more minutes before he can get hard again… glancing at Theo with a glint of his own. “Can you blame me?”

Teddy rolls fingers at him lazily, leaning in to peck at Jacob’s lips. “You _do_ have a very pretty cock.”

Jacob turns their kiss into more of a snog to hide the heat rising in his cheeks, pushing against Ted, shifting on his side. 

“Hope I’m worth more than that.”

Jacob fights to keep his voice steady, teasing, masking the real question. But Theo surely sees through him clear as glass—for that hand slips away, takes the cloth with it. 

“Hm. We already mentioned that pretty face.” 

Teddy pretends to further ponder while patting the flannel over himself, casting it away with a wink—thank _God_ he didn’t notice. “That _arse_ isn’t bad, either.”

And then Theo’s kissing him again, brushing back his hair, sucking sweetly on his bottom lip as he pulls Jacob on top. 

“And, _I think_ ,” Ted murmurs into his mouth, “ _a pretty heart_.”

Matchless in their fit, the embrace turns slow and appreciative, taking their time rather than the frenzied scramble of before.

Jacob knows exactly where he’s going to be for the rest of the night… even if Ted never outright responds to his foolish declaration of earlier, he still wants to be here.

And, Theo willing, he will be for the whole of tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😘  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Flower meanings** : also called Floriography. Very popular during the Victorian period, since you couldn't just simply come out and say how you felt about someone (heaven forfend!), you had to code your meaning by choosing certain flowers to mean different things. And of course in-game you collect pressed flowers for Henry, so I'm sure you all know this already. But like seriously, there was a flower for _everything_. And an extra fun fact: if you handed over the flowers upside down, it meant the exact _opposite_ of their original meanings. Good job Jacob didn't do that...
> 
>  **Pigeon-livered** : Victorian slang for a coward
> 
>  **Theo's piercing** : believe it or not, nipple piercings were a pretty big fad in Victorian England! Some doctors even recommended them for nursing mothers to increase lactation, which is certainly... an idea. These piercings were especially popular towards the latter half of the 19th century among all genders 
> 
> **Tar-barrel racing** : a centuries-old Bonfire Night tradition that takes place in the south English village of Ottery St. Mary, in which chosen bearers hoist a flaming barrel of tar on their shoulders and run through the town. Definitely a once-in-a-lifetime experience that Jacob would have crossed the country for
> 
>  **Snog** : British slang for a messy, amorous kiss with tongue


	18. that's the kind of love i've been dreaming of

It’s not a feeling Jacob’s used to.

Wrapped in a sweetened warmth. A dulcet peace. It seems foreign to him. 

Jacob rarely sleeps in a bed, and especially not like this: he can feel thin sheets trailing off his bare hips, toes grazing the baseboard. A pleasant coolness on his skin in the dark.

He comes awake slow, with nowhere to be... nothing to do… no one to disappoint.

Jacob’s _safe_ —here, in the quiet, intimate hum of a dimly lit space, he’s found his peace at the top of the world. 

No one knows where he is.

It feels, somehow, like joy.

He drifts for a bit from cloying sleep, to an even more placid wake—no compulsion to check the vicinity, no reason to guard himself. No need to take heed and feverishly plot his surroundings.

Jacob holds love in his arms.

His arm rests over Theo’s slender waist, hand drawn up and held gently in Ted’s own. It’s his broken hand, marred and lame, but taken in Teddy’s, it feels remarkable. His fella holds it safe to his own chest, fragile breaths ghosting across his knuckles. Clutching Jacob’s two surviving fingers in a private, sleeping comfort of his own. 

Jacob curls them tighter, shifts closer against his fella’s back, careful not to dip the bed, to disturb him, and presses a tender kiss at the nape of Theo’s neck. 

His skin smells like a place Jacob never wants to leave. A delectable taste on his lips, so different from the harsh, hurtful, world outside: like a place of safety just for him, where only sweetness reigns. 

But with Theo in his arms... 

...he feels like he’s there already.

From that fading kiss, Jacob rests his forehead against the bony jut of Ted’s spine, closing his eyes once more, and willing them both to dreams.

Though a tiny, gentle squeeze to his fingers makes him smile, and then Theo’s lips, soft and sweet across his palm. 

That bubble only brightens with Ted awake beside him, pulls in a golden glow that fills the whole room.

Jacob moves a tad higher up the bed, pushes his face against Theo’s tousled mop at the back of his head, fits his body up behind. 

" _How long have you been awake_ …?" He can _hear_ the fondness in himself, voice low and full of sleep. 

Ted goes drowsy and boneless in his embrace, gusting out a breathy sigh and melting back against him. “ _Mm_. Dunno.”

Jacob wishes he could run his hand along the sharp lines and creamy planes of Teddy’s body, but he's loathe to take it away from the tender care, the aching sweetness of being held. Of feeling _whole again._

Noses instead through his bloke’s hair, thick curls that're no longer individual ringlets but rather a mess of them, thanks to their fun. 

Ted smells divine, like lingering aftershave, and sex. 

"Should sleep…"

Jacob’s only half-awake himself, won’t be long before he drifts again. But he doesn't want to leave Teddy alone, not even in sleep.

“Never been _held_ like this,” Ted whispers, almost to himself, soft and awed over their curled hands.

Now that's a bit of a shock to hear: Ted's twenty-five and seems so sure of himself, of what he wants and doesn't. He said it's been donkey’s ears since he sold himself… how could he not have had anyone like this, how could no one... in the time between then and now? 

Jacob doesn't let go, only curls his fingers tighter. And anyway, it's not like _he's_ ever been held like this either. It's incomparable.

" _Then I'm the lucky one_." 

Jacob’s heart feels so full, his chest could burst—more than anything, he wants Theo to feel the same.

Seems to do the trick, as Teddy lips again at his fingertips, leaves the lightest of kisses over his bandages. Stretches languid, leisurely against Jacob’s front, the rub and push of Theo’s pert arse nudging his soft prick into waking.

It doesn’t help that with the touch he's thinking of earlier, of their second unrestrained romp through these very sheets; Jacob on top, mired between Teddy's spread thighs. They'd fucked hard and fast, pounding Theo into the mattress and hearing him cry Jacob’s name when his bloke came a second time, this one over his own stomach. Jacob came inside him, again.

By the time he's begun kissing down Theo's neck, reaching his shoulder, he's already half-hard and pressing up against his fella’s arse.

“ _Oh_ ,” Ted breathes, and Jacob can hear his wild grin in the air. “ _Hello_.”

Jacob’s wearing one to match, curling his tongue around Teddy’s familiar greeting as he draws his hand away. “ _Hiya_.” Slides fingers slowly down Teddy’s chest, over his stomach, stopping just shy of reaching his cock. 

“Anyone ever told ya,” Teddy groans, reaching back to pinch his hip, and drag him even closer, “that you’re a terrible feckin’ tease?”

He hoped that'd work, "Only you, _just now_." Jacob dips his hips a little lower, so his dick can slide between Teddy's fine thighs. His fella grabs Jacob’s arse and pulls him tight, both moaning at the touch.

“ _Yeah_ , that’s— _touch me_ ,” Theo begs, parting his legs enough for Jacob to move, canting hips to seek his hand. 

The slight strain of Teddy’s voice, the way he opens his legs in invitation; it's intoxicating, to be _wanted_ this badly. 

Jacob trails his hand down, but to the side, teasing Ted’s hipbone rather than what he _wants_ to be grabbed, shifting his own hips to rub himself against Teddy, pushing him for more. 

"And _what if I have something else in mind_ …?"

“ _Christ, darlin’._ ” Theo laughs, hoarse and frantic. “Dunno if I can take you again, just yet.”

Jacob chuckles, stupidly fond at the curve of Teddy’s neck. "Oh no, not _that_." Although perhaps later, he wouldn’t be opposed… Jacob gets to work showing him, instead.

Lazily rearranging them both, Jacob slides himself between Theo’s thighs once again. Parted for him, taut and lean, he's still a little bit disbelieving he gets to be _here_ , even as he settles over Ted, starts nipping on the patches of tender skin at his bloke's collar that aren't yet taken by his teeth. Their stiff cocks rubbing each other far too slowly for it to be any sort of relief for either.

"I'm gonna suck you off…"

He hears a shuddered breath pass by his ear, the only sound in the soft quiet of the room—the answer seems a foregone conclusion.

"...if you want that?"

“ _God_ ,” and Ted’s whimpering now, already flat on his back with a hand flung over his eyes, the other scritching through the short hairs at Jacob’s nape. 

“Be a feckin’ _fool,_ if I didn’t _._ ”

"And I know you're _no_ fool, Theo Neill." Jacob's chuckling again to himself as he waits for no answer, begins his journey south with lips parted, breathing hot, and thrilling at the thought of what he's about to do.

First stop, Jacob takes up that hot little piercing in his mouth, hearing Ted whine and squirm beneath him as he uses his tongue to fiddle with it. 

His reaction only makes Jacob more excited for this. 

And he is, looking forward to it, not only to get his lips around that long cock, but to make Teddy feel bloody brilliant. He _wants_ to, no reservations or hang-ups seeping in from his first bad experience, years ago. 

Okay, maybe a _few_.

But _this_ will be mutual, and Ted will still like him even after he's come in Jacob’s mouth.

Moving on, and leaving a wet trail of spit as he mouths his way downwards, Teddy’s flat belly is up next. Nipping little sideways kisses along it, Jacob's making sure to touch his lips to every mole he can see in the dark, stark against the milk-white skin. He twirls his tongue around Ted's navel, and he must be ticklish for they both laugh. 

Now getting to the good bit, a slim but dark line of hair comes in, leading all the way down to the base of Theo's cock. 

Jacob noses through it until he's licking up the length of him, and _what_ a length. He has a good inch on Jacob himself but he's not envious. Why the hell would he be, when he gets to suck it, and to _take_ it—which he honestly can't fucking _wait_ to do. 

Wrapping his hand around Jacob stands him up tall, sends his tongue lapping at Theo’s head, already beading with cum and Teddy _moans_ , low and raw.

 _Christ_ , he feels like a decadent whore, drowning in spunk and lavishing Teddy’s cock with all his attention, making everything about his bloke and his gratification. 

It's chuffing brilliant.

Jacob takes the final plunge and swallows him down, keeping his lips tight and his tongue slicking the length. Teddy's hands are already fisted in Jacob’s hair and tugging while he moves up and down, his fella rocking those knife-edge hips in tiny, aching thrusts, thighs shaking.

“Jacob, your _mouth_ … such a _pretty mouth_ , God, _look at you_.” Theo slides a thumb reverently over Jacob’s lips, soft and hot where they’re stretched around his cock. “Never _dreamt_ I could have you. _Not like this_.”

 _You can have me any way_.

Is what Jacob would answer with if he didn’t have his mouth full, looking up at Teddy and meeting his punch-drunk gaze, watching worshipfully from above, dark eyes unfocussed. 

But Jacob doesn’t want to lose his flow, and he’s never done this before (that first time does _not_ count, he had nearly no say in the outcome): he doesn’t want to muck it up, and feel a fool. So he keeps on his rhythm, grabbing at Ted’s waist with his free hand as his fella fucks deeper into his mouth.

 _Oh_ , how could he forget!

When Ted was doing this for him last night, the _noises_ he made drove Jacob loopy. He’s been so focussed on what his mouth is doing, the movement, that he’s forgotten about the rest of the experience. 

Tut, tut, Frye.

He puts an end to that at once, moaning up a storm as he squeezes Teddy’s dick, spit dripping down over his fingers as they grip and slide, making sure to add the slick and _pop_ of his lips: greedy affirmations _hmmm-ed_ as if to himself, but he’s making sure Theo hears every one. 

And then Teddy’s joining in.

“ _Oh_!— _Jaysus, Jacob_ —”

He can no longer see Ted’s face cos his bloke’s got his head tipped back, too far into the pillow. He _can_ see the long smooth line of his neck, Adam's apple bobbing as Theo gasps, cants those neat hips up into his gob and grips his hair harder.

Drawing his hand down, down along the inside of Teddy’s thighs, Jacob cups the firm weight of his balls, kneading them with his hastening pace on Theo’s cock. Keeping that time is quite a feat in and of itself, Ted should be impressed. 

Though going by the thick, lilting Irish pouring out of him, Ted doesn’t seem to be doing anything past dying a swift and glorious death, groans turning high and desperate. 

“ _Feck_ — _oh,_ Jacob _—Jacob._ ”

He’s never heard his name carted about so often, feels on fire with it, Ted might as well be praying to him. 

And Jacob’s no god like this, on his knees in the sheets with spit dripping down his chin, but it probably does feel _divine_.

That yardstick of a cock is hitting the back of his throat now with every dip, although it’s not staying long enough for him to gag: so Jacob drives even harder, hair flopping forward round his eyes. It's annoying but he's not stopping, not with how loud Teddy's praising him, _fuck_.

Another moment, and as if he read his mind, Ted reaches down with a trembling hand, brushes the hair from Jacob’s eyes—in silent thanks Jacob caresses his hip, meeting Theo’s gaze with a waggish _wink_ …

Theo comes on the spot.

Like hitting a bloody button.

Through his fella’s gratifying death-throes Jacob keeps at him with no time to mourn, drawing him out till he’s thin as spun glass.

Theo’s chest heaves, limbs slowly untangling from around Jacob’s shoulders, till he’s lying still and exhausted in the sheets.

The shot of spunk definitely wasn’t as bad as his first go round. Maybe he’d played it up in his head, gone over it too much and painted the sourness of the whole affair on every bit of the ordeal. 

Either way, that’s enough of the past, and Jacob swallows down the future; smacking his lips, left salty and used. He sighs, _happy_ —more than pleased with his performance, having heard the review in real-time. 

Lays his head on Teddy’s thigh with a sloppy kiss, awaits his fella’s return to the land of the living with what feels like a fool’s proud grin.

“ _Oh_ ,” Teddy moans, gasping and spent, carding hands through Jacob’s ruined hair with trembling, grateful fingers. “My _darlin’ man_.”

Closing his eyes at the touch, Jacob sighs… could honestly fall asleep right here, lauded and loved, but perhaps laid up on the mattress would be more comfortable for them both. He shifts up the bed with a drawn-out groan, flopping down on his front beside Teddy, face stuffed in the pillow. 

Relaxing, Jacob gusts out a contented breath into the feathers beneath, mumbling hopefully. "Was that up to snuff?"

“You _know_ it was,” Teddy whispers, husky, already rolling onto his side to drop kisses over Jacob’s shoulders. “ _Thank you_.”

That’s a little nicer ending than being left on his knees in the rain and the dirt. Jacob shifts to let Ted lay on the pillow beside him, faces almost touching. 

“You’re like trying to swallow a water level gauge.”

“ _Liar_ ,” Theo mutters, but he’s flushing in the dim light, moving forward to mouth along Jacob’s jaw. He can feel Ted’s eyelashes against his cheek. “Too much?”

“Nah,” Jacob drifts his eyes shut, savouring the attention. “I enjoy a challenge.” 

Ted only chuckles, low in his throat as he nuzzles his chin; trails a slow, clever hand down Jacob’s chest. 

Opening his eyes with a sleepy blink, Jacob spies Ted’s fine face only a breath away, wearing such a fond, expectant look that he can’t help but smile.

He knows where that hand is headed, and _yes_ his dick is still hard from their fun, but he doesn’t want more: only wants _Theo_ , and a warm arm around him to drift back to sleep.

“Only want you.” Jacob mutters, kindly declining and gently taking Teddy’s wrist as his fingers skim his abdomen, drifts Theo’s hand to hold his hip instead, wanting him close.

When understanding lights in him, Theo’s gaze softens, flickers into something almost worshipful as he leans in, drinking deeply from Jacob’s lips, stroking down his jaw.

“ _Too good to me_ ,” he murmurs, and then he’s hugging Jacob to his chest, pulling him close and warm. The bed creaks beneath them, and it feels like being wanted.

Like everything he’s ever craved, suspended in one sweet, perfect moment in time.

What a pleasant memory, to drift off to.  
  


* * *

  
He wakes to the sound of shifting, clinking, feet padding on a wooden floor. 

Jacob sighs when he blinks his eyes open, still laid on his belly. Bright light now fills Theo’s bedroom, coming in from all four windows, east and west-facing: must be late morning, at least. There’s a quilt tucked in cosy at his side, guarding him from any imagined chill—though he can’t feel one, and that little stove sounds to be crackling away already. 

Mmm. S’nice.

The mattress dips, and Teddy carefully lifts the cover, sliding back into bed beside him as naked as a cherub. Jacob grins into his own arms, turns his head to peek up at Theo.

“Mornin’, handsome.”

Ted looks about as sleepy as Jacob feels, but there’s a sheen of happiness, a gloss, a coat of it, wrapped around his fella, making him shine. He’s gazing down with a luminous smile, the happiest that Jacob’s ever seen.

“...good morning, isn’t it?”

His fella’s curly ‘do looks as orderly as a flock of seagulls round Billingsgate, but it’s what’s in his hand that catches Jacob’s eye. With a steaming cuppa held aloft, Teddy takes a careful sip, while Jacob turns lazily on his side, teasing.

“S’that for _me_? You shouldn’t have.”

“Mm. Hope you didn’t have anywhere to be early.” Ted plays a hand through his hair, trailing down his temple to brush his stubbled cheek.

“It’s a funny thing, actually...” 

Ted raises a brow, humouring him. Jacob loves him for it. 

“I’m supposed to be, right _here_.”

Seems to be a winning answer in Teddy’s book, if that dazzling grin is anything to go by, and he settles in, those bony hips nudging Jacob’s side. 

“Sugar in your brew alright?”

He lamentably makes a move, pushing himself up to prop against the headboard beside Theo just as he’s handed over the tea, eyebrows raising when he peers into the cup.

“Two, I hope.”

Teddy snorts, tipping his head back and sliding a warm, easy arm around Jacob’s shoulders, tugging him nearer. 

“As I said last night, _greedy man._ ”

“Surprised you can remember anything but my name...” 

He takes an overly-long _slurp_ after his taunt, so he doesn’t have to show his grin and Theo can’t jump him since _tea_ , but he lets the sound linger on, peeking at Ted.

“Cheeky _fecker_ ,” Theo only mutters, rolling his eyes to the ceiling and slumping back into the pillow. “Here now, give us a drink.”

Jacob hands it back over, careful not to spill. “That’s not bad. Got anything to eat?” He steals a peek to where the kettle sits atop the little parlour stove, scanning for anything visible. 

His stomach’s beginning to wake.

Teddy blows over the rim of the cup, looking altogether too amused. “There’s a tin of biscuits, if you like. I usually breakfast out, there’s a coffee stall nearby.”

Jacob also _acutely_ recalls a sarnie shop in the house next door, which gives him cause to smile. Sends it Teddy’s way, not wanting to leave right now. 

Or ever, really. 

"I can go get us a few things, in a bit." 

“No,” Ted sighs, resting the cuppa on his chest and burying his nose in Jacob’s hair. “I’ll go. If Clarissa sights you, she’s sure to talk your head right off.”

That's not the only thing she wants off.

"You know, she told me I look _just_ like her husband, in his youth."

Theo peeks at him, little frown lines creasing up his dear face. “Her husband’s dead.”

“Oh yes, she very _happily_ informed me of that fact.” Jacob watches Ted's slight hint of perplexion shift into realisation, then irritation.

“ _Fecking Clarissa_.” Jacob feels the arm around his shoulders tighten, just a bit—just enough to give him a strange feeling he's not felt in a long time, not since he was a child—someone being, _protective_ of him. 

It's _nice_.

Jacob opts to change the angle, something lighter, spare his man that grey look.

“D’you think she killed him?”

Teddy’s startled laughter rings loud and true, makes Jacob grin, conspiring further. 

“Perhaps he’s hidden under the floorboards.” 

Theo smirks. “Put himself there, if he had any sense.”

Then it’s Jacob’s turn to laugh, easing into Teddy’s side, leaning on him a little. Ted takes another gulp of tea once he’s stopped chuckling, and Jacob tries to sound blasé. “ _So_. Where exactly are these biscuits?”

Theo tilts him a knowing look, somehow smug as hell. 

“You’re starvin’, aren’t you.”

"I could eat Aintree." And that's putting it mildly, for his stomach whines as if on cue. Jacob shoves himself out of bed, bare feet on the cool floorboards as the sheet falls away, leaving him naked and warm when he stands up tall. Cracks his stiff joints, his neck, stepping towards the small stove and feeling the heat on his thighs. 

“Man can’t live on cum alone, I see.”

Jacob's well aware Ted's looking at his arse, that self-satisfied lilt ripe with appreciation. He tries to catch his best angle.

"It's not particularly filling, no." He sends a grin over his shoulder, eye catching on a conspicuously round tin on the shelf beside Teddy’s tea-making stuffs. 

Behind him Ted sinks back against the pillow, taking a lazy swig of brew and looking rather best pleased with himself. 

Jacob pops the lid.

 _Jackpot_. 

“I’ll be sure to alert the maid that Lord Frye takes his breakfast in bed, next time.”

Jacob smirks while dawdling the two short steps back to the bed, already having shoved an entire biscuit in his gob. He drawls in a toff’s voice, rather enjoying the contrast between it and the crumbs tumbling out his mouth. 

“Always fancied myself a _Sir_ , actually.”

Theo sticks out a skinny wrist, tugging him back into the sheets and Jacob falls easily. 

“A knight without his armour.”

His bloke runs that same hand down his thigh, like he’s impatient to have Jacob back at his side. Makes his stomach clench at the thought. Or maybe that’s just the lack of grub sitting in it. 

Jacob plucks out three more biscuits before passing it off to Teddy, “I _have_ been known to save the odd damsel.”

Ted smirks into their cuppa, and Jacob’s quite pleased that he took the tease well. After a moment, Theo quietly lays his head against Jacob's freckled shoulder, breathing out a gentle sigh.

He sees Ted clutching the tea to his breast, the tin untouched in his lap, dark lashes swept down while his fine-looking fella rests peacefully against him. 

Jacob wanted this. _He wanted this_. And now he has it. 

And it’s an incredible feeling; to _be_ wanted.

After eating two more of the biscuits in hand, he glances down at the bloke again. Watching Teddy, he recalls something from last night that he’s been meaning to ask. 

Brushing off his lips, beard, the crumbs from his chest, he prompts, casual-like, “That’s a very fine necklace. S’there a story, along with it?”

Seems Theo’s been drifting in his own little contented cloud, judging by the way he blinks, fingers curling reflexively around the pendant. 

“Ah, well.” The man ducks his head, as if studying it for himself. “It’s not full gold—just plated, see. Part o’ me mam’s dowry, back in the old country. Was her leaving-gift to me, when I came south to London. No matter how hungry I was, just… never could part with it.”

Jacob smiles kindly. “I get that.” 

If he had something of his mother’s, he would never let go of it either.

He and Evie did manage to find a few odd, scattered things, but were never able to keep them.

If Father hadn’t hidden all her possessions away from them, told them almost next to nothing about her, then he might have _something_. 

But no.

...he’s not going to allow that bitterness to seep in, not going to taint his time here with Ted. So he shoves on a brighter smile, nudging Theo’s shoulder with his own cheeky look. 

“Looks pretty good knocking between your tits.”

“Shut up,” Teddy huffs, but those high cheeks are flushed and lovely in the dappled morning sun. And Jacob knows he likes the fun, really. 

Daintily stealing the cup from those long fingers curled round it, Jacob takes a drink. Glancing airily about the attic room where they’ve spent the night together, he hands it back slowly, distracted. 

“Dandy little place, Theo. Suits you.”

Teddy perks up, just a bit. Clearly flattered. “Cheers. I know it’s not much against your train, but. It’s safe. And I like the… light.”

“Nah, it’s great. Beats inhaling coal on every breath and no privacy.” 

Ted looks like he doesn’t know where to put all these compliments, but he’s just going to have to get used to it. Jacob folds his left hand up behind his head, leaning back on it against the wall, testing these still waters with a bit of confidence. 

“You’ll have to tell me where you keep your spare key.” 

Theo looks like he has, _oh_ , a half-dozen possible responses to that at least, all vying to be first on his tongue, but says none of them: only drapes himself over Jacob’s broad chest, grin turning coy.

“Will I, now.”

Jacob already knows _that_ look, sees the biscuit tin tipping over Ted’s lap, forgotten in the sheets with only eyes for his fella who’s currently slathered on him. 

Jacob lightens his tone, danger dripping honey-sweet from every word. “Either _that_ , or I’ll break in through the _windows_.”

Ted bites the fat swell of his bottom lip, dark gaze sly. “And ravish me, I expect.”

Theo’s eyes are skimming over every inch of him he can see, covetous, you might say… makes Jacob breathless, and ready. 

“There you go, putting ideas in my head.” 

His fella smirks into his half-filled mug, looking like perhaps he’d take the bait were it not for the certainty of spilled tea. 

“Plenty more where that came from.”

Jacob’s about to remove that single obstacle keeping him from shoving Teddy back down into the sheets and kissing him silly—halfway there already with a hand on his chest when he suddenly freezes, eyes wide.

They’re not alone.

There’s something— _someone_ —at the door, scratching at the wood: his sense is only small, barely a flicker, but enough to snap him out of his lovestruck haze, Evie’s warning about _getting caught_ ringing in his ears like gunfire.

“Ted,” he rasps, mentally cataloguing his weapons, his clothes, how quickly it will take to reach them, “ _What_ is that noise?”

Seemingly unaware of their danger, Teddy frowns slowly, tilting his head. “I don’t hear… _oh_.” Sinking back into the pillow, he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “The cat.”

 _Oh_. Oh. Thank Christ.

Jacob tweaks a brow, puffing out a breath alongside Ted's easy amusement. "You have a _cat_ , and you _didn’t_ tell me?"

“Not mine, exactly. Clarissa’s mouser, but she seems to… favour me.” Theo looks a little pleased at the thought, although he adds, hastily. “Sure, she only just likes that it’s warm up here.”

" _Sure_." Jacob doesn't believe that for a second. "Not opening the door?"

"Go on, if you like."

Ted seems willing and he takes advantage, throwing back the covers to head over. He can sense now that the small presence out there is alone, that it's safe to open the door.

The creak of the hinges is at once followed by a low pitched _burr_ announcing her arrival, and the cat strolls on in like she owns the joint. She rubs herself against Jacob’s bare leg, staring up at him with huge blue eyes almost too big for her head. 

"Hello there.” Jacob carefully shuts the door, latches it for good measure before bending carefully to scoop the creature into his arms. She plants her paws against his chest with a lazy blink, unaffected as Jacob trails a glance behind, to where Ted’s watching over the rim of his tea. "And you must _be_ …?" 

Teddy shrugs. “Cat.”

Jacob laughs, “ _Cat_? Where’s the imagination in that.”

He pads his way over to the bed, planting _Cat_ in the middle of the covers and slipping back in beside Ted, notices the biscuits and tin have been cleaned up. Runs a proprietary hand down his fella’s thigh because he’s Jacob bloody Frye, and _he can_.“ _I_ think we should choose a proper name for her.”

The animal merely blinks at them, then walks her way over, decides to plant herself right in Jacob’s lap.

Theo laughs, indulgent as he slinks down against Jacob’s side, leeching off his heat. Seems like someone else likes the warmth up here. Jacob would wrap himself around Ted to help, if not for the purring madam currently kneading his thighs. 

“Like what.”

“Hm,” Jacob bites his lip, already has an idea burning a hole in his pocket, drawing it out a few moments instead. “What about; Longshanks.”

Ted raises one slanted brow, echoing dubiously. “ _Longshanks_.” He then reaches over to give her a light brush with his fingers, scratching behind one tawny ear. “Cat, my lovely, do you hear the man? Gobbin’ on about your legs.”

Jacob laughs, scratching at her other ear. "I'm only naming her after her favourite _tenant_."

Theo’s pretty mouth falls open wide, even with those languorous legs still on clear display, half-tangled in the sheets like some loose temptress. 

“You bastard.”

Laughing again, this time at the charming over-reaction, Jacob catches up Theo’s wrist, popping those fingers and palm atop his own head; they’re wasted on a cat. 

“It’s what I’ve always named my pets, since I was a chavy. My first was a frog. _Hence_ …” He shrugs at the last, almost shy. Maybe it’s a stupid thing to say.

But those long fingers scratch obligingly through his sea of cowlicks, earning a happy little sigh while Jacob pets at the feline still stomping around his lap. 

“A frog, eh?” Teddy’s biting back a grin, he can tell. “Wee Jacob Frye, covered in mud. Bet you were the sight.”

“And soot, and leaves... water, horse shit. The lot.” He grins but has his eyes closed, everything feels just perfect, right now. Minus the odd claw stickin’ in his leg. “Lost that frog in church. It jumped out my pocket and disappeared under the pew. Never found it.”

“Shame,” Ted sighs, but the fondness in his voice nearly overtakes the rest. “Ridin’ round in your pocket doesn’t sound so bad.”

Jacob peeks at him from the corner of his eye, “There’s always a spot for you in my trousers.”

It’s a clever line, but also true—and well Theo seems to know it, teasing a finger along the crest of his hip. “I’m a lucky one.”

Jacob’s grin turns brighter, feeling prized, venerated even. 

Slips his hand under the sheet to take up and curl around Theo’s. “Seems you have some competition.” He nods towards Longshanks who’s finally settled in his lap, washing her face.

Ted huffs. “Cat, my lovely. I don’t want to fight you for this man, but I will.”

They both turn to look at her when she merely blinks, ceases her washing, and yawns.

Jacob scratches his chin. “Honestly, I think she could take you.”

Wrinkling his nose, Teddy only pokes the animal gently, mussing her fur with a lofty sniff.

“Jacob’s mine, you see.”

Watching Ted from the corner of his eye; the sweet Irish hue of _mine_ floats round his head, but all Jacob can hear is _I love you_.

“You heard the man, Longshanks. Scram.” Jacob bounces his lap, shuffles her off so she finishes up a disgruntled loaf at the bottom of the bed.

No sooner has the creature left than his fella takes her place, crawling into the vacated spot, fitting his back to Jacob’s front, nestling snugly up against his chest. 

Slipping arms around Ted’s bony frame with a proprietary comfort, it’s easy to see just how much narrower his bloke is than himself; all lean sinew and bones in place of solid muscle and fat. He adores how Theo’s striking multitudes are stored in such a tight space.

“That’s more like it.”

Jacob agrees wholeheartedly, dips his chin to rest upon Ted’s shoulder. 

Can he stay here forever? He thinks he’ll stay here forever.

Planting a gentle kiss atop each of the moles sprinkled across Theo’s shoulder, he gusts dreamily, “I think I’ll stay here forever.”

“I thought you wanted breakfast.”

Jacob smirks, “Can I not have… _both_?”

When Ted turns enough to catch his mouth in a sweet, easy kiss, it feels like a promise.

“Let me up to fetch food, and you can stay as long as you like.”

Oh. _Food_.

Jacob reluctantly draws his hands back, leaving Ted free to slip away and begin getting dressed. For his part he merely lies back, content to watch the reverse strip tease, a very appreciative smile all the while. “Take a couter out my pocket.”

“I’ll manage, darlin’.”

"Not with what _I_ want." Ted stops buttoning up his shirt to turn and look Jacob’s way, that fine raised brow showing he's needing clarification.

"Get what you normally would, then triple it."

Teddy snorts, but looks delighted anyway as he finishes up his shirt. “Worked him into an appetite, did I.”

The smug little shit, but Jacob does nothing to correct him. 

"I need filling up, before I fill _you_ up." 

Jacob smirks, never feeling as pleased with himself as he does seeing Theo blush and turn away, amble off to gather his boots.

His fella looks happy though, _giddy_ almost, like he's got something amazing to tell someone. It's boundlessly adorable seeing just how sweet and attentive Ted is beneath that thin shell of snappish one-liners and dour curses.

Jacob smashed right through that shell, didn't even notice it was _there_ , thought it nothing more than a foul mood under obviously trying circumstances. Now look where he is; starkers, in Theo’s _bed_ , both of them well-fucked and grinning. They’ve talked, and held each other, and drunk from the same cup.

So, he sighs, peacefully resigning himself, there's absolutely no doubt about it.

Jacob’s in love.

“Think you missed a spot.”

Jacob motions at his own neck, at a point just below his jaw. Teddy’s buttoned up his shirt all the way to the top in a futile effort to hide the bruises he's been left with. 

“Sod off.” Once again Teddy flushes all the way down to his pretty roots, and Jacob smirks, cat with the cream while he lounges abed. Theo’s fetched the offered quid as well, he’s chuffed to spy—good. Doesn’t need to be spending his hard-earned dosh on feeding anyone but himself.

“Won’t be long,” Ted starts, still fidgeting with his collar and eyeing Jacob almost shyly. “You’ll, ah. Still be here when I’m back, yeah?”

Theo’s got something about him, something going on beneath that pale surface: it halts Jacob’s want to tease about nipping out to see another bloke, or that he’s had enough for now, and he’ll be gone. 

“Course I will.” Jacob says instead, smile truer than anything before. Seems to do the trick as Ted perks up, comes closer. “If I’m _not_ here, check under the floorboards.”

That pulls a grin out of him again, and Jacob thrills to see it—and then Teddy’s dropping a kiss to the top of his head, slipping away before Jacob can grab him, pull him back into bed. 

Left with a dreamy look as Ted disappears out the door, he hears it _click_ a second later. Jacob knows Teddy’s not locking him _in_ , he’s keeping others _out_ … chiefly, one particularly _eager_ landlady.

Eh, he’ll tackle that succubus if it comes to it.

Now, left alone, Jacob sinks dreamily down into the mattress, listening to the last of Theo’s footsteps disappearing down the stairs. It’s easy, _right_ to centre all his focus on his fella’s comforting presence, even as his proximity fades. 

Jacob lets out a loud, long sigh, congratulating himself. 

“Well, Jacob, you’ve pulled this one off _quite_ nicely.” 

Literally.

He shuts his eyes and drifts into sugary thoughts, filled with nothing but Theo, of being alone with him: asked after, safe in a place where his opinion matters, of being _cared_ for. All things so basic, so baseline, he can admit it’s sad he has to crave them. But his man’s gone off to _buy him food_ , for Christ's sake. Since when has anyone ever done that? 

Unless it’s his Rooks and Jacob asks them to, but that’s more of a boss-thing.

Jacob’s sprawled out half-buried under the covers, floating in a lazy haze of warmth and safety. He drifts like that for a while, utterly relaxed, until the next thing to drag his focus are four dinky paws tromping up his body. Even with Longshanks’ feet treading in some _very_ sensitive places and coming to shuffle herself into a ball, laid upon his chest, he still wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

“May I help you?”

She blinks, then closes her eyes, evidently comfortable and no amount of frivolous human questions will change that. 

The thing that does change that is when Jacob sits up, pops her to the side, placing her in Ted’s vacant spot, and slips out of bed. 

With a stretch up to the ceiling, he easily touches the beams with the tips of his fingers. Rolling his shoulder and realising it feels a lot better, he sighs, stepping over to the desk and peering out the same window where he first saw Teddy last night.

There’s a view of a bus depot directly over the road, and if he pushes his face up to the glass Jacob can see down to the cobbles. Spies London Bridge station in the far distance, finding himself wondering exactly how far Teddy’s gone to get them breakfast.

Hopefully not _too_ far, he’d have tagged along with him otherwise. 

Slouching down into the desk chair at his feet, it creaks when he leans back, surveying the small but tidy space, where everything is aligned and set into place. Jacob shocks himself, doesn’t find it annoying—unlike when Evie sweeps through his carriage like a plague, hiding all his shit in the name of _respectability_. Bloody sisters. 

He extracts the nearest book from the four lined up, reads “ _The Moonstone, Vol.I_ ” beneath his breath. Looks shiny-new, but this was the book Ted flew across the bed when Jacob rapped on the window—he remembers the bland brown cover. The three other books keep different titles, no volume two or three, not a Dickens. 

Ah. Except _A Tale of Two Cities_.

Glancing around at the space as a whole, it’s simple, but he likes that. Nothing fancy needed, just a dependable little haven they can be themselves in. 

Scratching at his belly, Jacob feels another pang of hunger hollowing him out. Deciding to deter that for a tad longer, he stands and picks up his clothes, placing them in a pile at the side of the room, tidy up a bit for Ted. Then he dives onto the bed, laid lengthways on his front across it with Longshanks by his head, Jacob plucks the tin of biscuits from off the floor and stuffs a couple in his mouth, petting her and chuckling as she begins to purr, dropping crumbs in her opulent fluff.

Jacob’s scoffed a half-dozen more before the key’s scratching in the lock; looking up in time to spot his handy fella breezing through the door, lean arms full of wax-wrapped foodstuffs.

He surprises himself by how much he’s missed Teddy, even in so short a time.

"Before you say anything, I didn’t get dressed because I didn't see the point." Jacob smiles, satisfied.

“No protest from me,” Teddy drawls, coming to settle his purchases on the covers. He leans in to brush another kiss against Jacob’s wild hair before sitting himself on the edge of the mattress, already beginning to unlace his boots. 

“I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

Teddy’s tone is fond rather than annoyed, so that's something to grin about. 

"The host keeps me in good spirits," Jacob’s grabbing the nearest sarnie, already starting to unwrap it, "and out of my attire."

“Well done _me_ ,” Theo murmurs, dragging a teasing hand down his back before reaching for a sandwich of his own. “These are ham and cress, and there’s cheddar as well. The lass in the shop asked if I was feedin’ the army.”

Jacob doesn't really care what's in them, just sinks his teeth into the crispy bread, cold meat and earthy greens, having almost forgotten what eating _feels_ like. He’s finished his first by the time Teddy’s taking his first _bite_.

Jacob kicking his legs in the air behind as he rummages for another. 

“I’ll bring you more biscuits. I ate them all,” he informs, absently.

Theo’s look is indulgent. “I expected nothing less.”

Jacob’s scoffed all of his second sandwich and is onto his third by the time he asks, “You have no more volumes, of that book?” He jerks his chin toward the desk where the one he was perusing is laid out on its side. Ted’s looking at him, those sweet cheeks of his round like a winter squirrel. He gulps.

“Oh, it’s only new—the story hasn’t been finished, yet.” Teddy nibbles at his ham and cress more, brows quirking. “You went through my things?”

“Only a peek.” Ted doesn’t seem bothered, merely curious; and anyway, he only just sat in the desk chair, didn’t poke through much. Jacob takes the last bite of his sandwich, pocketing it into his cheek and talking around it. “Noticed _Frankenstein_. Never finished it myself.”

“Ah, yeah. First book I ever bought myself.” Teddy takes another bite, then offers, slow. “You could… borrow it. If you’d like.”

That’s very thoughtful, but Jacob gives it only a moment's ponderence, then decides. 

“ _Hmhm_. Might read it here.”

“You should,” Teddy says after a beat, and Jacob can _hear_ his smile. “Ta, for the sandwiches. Got your change in my pocket.”

Jacob nods but says nothing aloud, for Teddy should keep it, get himself a meal with the remainder. He then shifts, moving from his sprawled position across the bed to sit up, cross his naked legs atop the covers.

"Working tomorrow?" Jacob wonders lightly, reaching for, unwrapping, and starting on his fourth sandwich. Doing his level best not to seem _too_ hopeful that Ted might consider staying home, wait for Jacob to return.

“Mm. Best show my face, before I get sacked.”

Jacob wants to scoff, shoving in more cheddar instead. "Ned wouldn't. Not unless you scratched up his pride an' joy."

Theo snorts around a mouthful of ham. 

“Are you talkin’ about his train, or the stolen Turner in his office.” 

Jacob smirks, because of course Ned has posh shit like that adorning his walls. "The train. Wouldn't even let me on when I had a bit of mud up my trow."

Teddy grins, reaching gently to brush Jacob’s chest, the corner of his lip; sees little crumbs fall to the covers. “Ned’s particular like that.”

Jacob brushes them the rest of the way to the floor, wiping his mouth with only a smidge of embarrassment. "M'lucky _you_ aren't."

Theo only cuts him a fond smile while he finishes his sandwich, neatly folds the waxed paper in two, doesn't say a word. 

He's watching Ted's nimble fingers crease the lines, traces the supple form of his hands, along his arm to rolled up sleeves, slender limbs fit well inside the clothes of the night before. Jacob wonders—finds himself in _awe_ yet again—at the ridiculous fact he gets to be here with Teddy, sharing a meal with this man, on his bed, in his home, _naked_ , and they're going about it as if it's perfectly normal.

"Theo," Jacob waits for him to glance up, that shrewd gaze softened, vulnerable, just how Jacob feels. 

"Thanks for, an amazing night."

He wants to say _so much_ more, his words seem pitifully inadequate for the multitude of feelings coursing through his veins, but with the look now upon Theo's face, Jacob has an inkling anything else would say too much. 

The fella leans in, those hands sliding to Jacob's jaw; he lets Theo guide his face as they embrace, deep and worshipful. Jacob's arms curl tight around his bloke, bringing him near.

Teddy tastes of fresh bread and sharp cheese, but most importantly, _himself_.

It’s such a _gift_.

“ _Yeah_.” Theo murmurs against his cheek when they finally come up for air, those dark eyes gleaming back at him. “The first of… more, I hope.”

To hear Teddy wanting fills Jacob’s chest to the brim, turning his wryest smile his man's way.

"I'll be here, whether you like it or not."

Ted grins, smile crooked and radiant in the bright of day. “Then it’s a very good thing,” he whispers, returning to mouth down the curve of Jacob’s stubble, “that I _like_ it.”

Jacob drifts his eyes closed, tips his head to the sky: the hot breath on his skin, the slick lips, the reverence and attention… he couldn’t ask for more. Instead, he simply hopes Ted won't ever tire of him and the way he goes about life, fast and carefree, like people usually have in the past. 

He wants so badly to say those three sweet words again, but it would most certainly ruin the moment, so he enjoys the now instead.

When Teddy finally draws back for breath he's beaming, running a wondering finger down Jacob’s jaw. Tracing lightly over his scar, another unspoken question. 

He supposes he'll give in. Again.

"I was tryin' to imitate my father," Jacob groans, rolling eyes at his own childhood stupidity, "and showing off—to Evie, of all people."

He doesn't _quite_ fancy going into how it was his brand-new hidden blade that cut open his cheek: had it propped under his chin, leaning on his palm like he'd seen Father do so many times when he thought the twins weren't paying attention. 

But that particular detail will invite a whole host of questions he's not really in the mindset to field. 

He'll tell Ted the truth about the Brotherhood. 

Eventually.

"You, showin’ off? I don't believe it."

Theo's sharp little smirk is enough to make Jacob pull the same, reaching down to pinch that slim waist, make Ted squirm.

"She screamed _bloody murder_ when it happened. We were thirteen; neither of us had ever seen so much blood."

“Christ.” Teddy rubs the pad of his thumb over the scar again, tickling Jacob’s scruff. “Healed up well, though.”

Jacob tilts his head, raises his chin with a rakish tease, "Adds an air of mystery, I like to think." 

Ted smiles, gentle. “Hope your da appreciated the effort. Your imitation.”

Jacob can see what he's doing, sifting for the silver lining in an otherwise unhappy memory. There isn’t one. Though he remembers the shock, the panic and worry drowning his father's cold blue eyes, his usually harsh face. _That_ was something he'd not been privy to before, not really. 

As a boy, not yet jaded by the realisation that his father was as uniquely flawed as a man can be, Jacob would never have wished for his father to suffer just to finally see his care. 

In the years afterward… well. 

Doesn't stop him from treasuring this melancholy memory of the man, one of the deepest in a pitifully shallow pool. 

"He felt it was his fault. Thinking back on it now, I could tell."

The plain fact Jacob had to very nearly kill himself for Father to show care, show him some attention other than scorn, is something he’d rather not linger on for long.

So when Jacob sits back, he leans his head against his arm propped on the wall, and lets his focus drift over the daylight streaking the floor, dust motes swirling in the sun. "One of the few times he cared enough to have a differing opinion of me."

He sees his fella shift out the corner of his eye, Teddy’s sharp face darkening, scowl covering those handsome features like a raincloud on a summer’s day. When Ted speaks, his voice is rough, unforgiving. 

"Sounds like no kind of father.”

Oh, he was definitely of a kind. 

The bad kind.

"I sometimes wonder if he'd have treated me differently, had my mum been around." 

Sometimes, _ha_. 

He knows it’s a lie as it leaves his lips, or at very least, the understatement of the century: growing up, Jacob can scarcely remember a day he _didn’t_ wonder, didn’t ask to the open sky why he was destined to be the disappointment, the constant stone in his father’s shoe.

Not knowing the answer is the worst part. 

And now with Father dead and gone, he will _never_ know the answer. 

On the up-side, it's a pleasant change having Theo here, to bounce his thoughts off someone outside his own echoing, dreary head. Someone who cares enough to listen.

Jacob sighs, offering his own answer before Theo feels compelled to comfort him.

"Probably." He smiles, bittersweet. "I bet I'd have been her favourite. Proper mummy's boy."

Jacob's got a proud little smile when he glances at Ted, cheers him to see his fella showing a shy grin of his own.

“I was, at that. Me mam would say I still am.”

Bolstered by Teddy’s ease, Jacob raises a brow, makes a show of looking the bloke up and down, despite _him_ being the naked one. 

"Hmm. Quite the specimen she's reared."

“Feck off,” Ted mutters, but he’s smiling anyway. “How come ya know some Irish, anyhow?”

Carding a hand through his hair, Jacob thinks back. 

"One of my mates in Crawley was an Irish lad. And a ginger, poor sod." 

Ted slaps his thigh for the tease but it's hardly worth mentioning, Jacob grins. "I picked up the odd common word. Got him to teach me swears though. He talked much broader than _you_. Think you're watered down."

“It’s all this time spent with you. Feckin’ English pricks.”

Jacob laughs, can see Ted wants to as well, despite his exaggerated huff.

"But I thought you _liked_ my English prick?" 

The smug query hangs in the air between them, said prick currently on full display, but he’s not embarrassed about it one bit. 

Jacob’s never been shy with his body, and now with the near-godly reverence Ted's been lashing him with the past day, it _might_ have gone to his… head.

Both of them.

“Don’t push your luck,” Teddy says, but he’s smirking crookedly as he steals an obvious look between Jacob’s splayed thighs.

Taking up Theo's wrist he reels his fella in, brings him close to breathe low and hot at his ear. 

“You said don’t?”

Feels Teddy shiver when Jacob hauls him into his lap, burying his mouth at his throat and growling, happy.

" _Now where's the fun in that_?" 

Happier than he's been in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this chapter had entirely _nothing_ to do with the plot whatsoever and everything to do with showing these happy little queers being soft and loved 😁 Though not to worry, that pesky plot is a-brewin’—stay tuned next time for the first appearance of a familiar face!
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Billingsgate** : a fish market in London. In its original location in the 19th century, Billingsgate was the largest fish market in the world
> 
>  **"I usually breakfast out"** : working-class Londoners often ate breakfast on the go, coffee with bread (and butter, if you were lucky) was the most common to be bought from stalls
> 
>  **Aintree** : Jacob’s riffing off the phrase ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse’; Aintree is a very famous racecourse in the UK, located just outside of Liverpool. Extra fact: the Grand National steeplechase is held here annually, a race nowadays that is watched worldwide by an estimated 500 to 600 million people in over 140 countries! 
> 
> **Gob** : mouth
> 
>  **Toff** : a derogatory British slang term used for someone from an aristocratic background *wheels out guillotine*
> 
>  **Chavy** : Victorian slang for a child
> 
>  **Couter** : Victorian slang for a pound
> 
>  **Starkers** : stark naked. Completely unclothed 😏
> 
>  **Succubus** : a demon from folklore, who appears in female form in order to seduce men, usually through sexual activity. Fecking Clarissa
> 
>  **Trow** : short for trousers
> 
>  **“Or the stolen Turner in his office”** : referring to J. M. W. Turner, or William Turner, a British artist known for his colour and vivid, imaginative landscapes. If you don’t know the name you’ve more than likely seen at least one of his paintings, of which after his death in 1851, he left behind more than 550 oil, 2,000 watercolours, and over 30,000 works on paper!


	19. i think about you though, everywhere i go

This is _hmm_ , roughly the fifth time he's tried to unlatch the window. 

Looks to be going as well as the other four.

Theo threads lithe fingers around the back of Jacob’s neck, grabs a firm hold of his collar and drags him in.

And why would he ever resist, for, apart from between his fella’s spread thighs—in his arms and open lips is Jacob’s _second_ favourite place to be.

And that's right where he is now.

“Sorry, _sorry_ ,” Teddy whispers into his mouth, fingers combing through his hair. “Don’t want ya missin’ your train…”

Jacob’s pretty sure he's already missed it, several times over, but then there's the distinct possibility he's forgotten how to tell time. 

" _Coulda fooled me_ ,” he mutters, pinning Ted back against the corner of his desk, hearing the scrape of wood on wood. Theo only _just_ slunk off the edge of it, after Jacob put him up there, stood teasing one another between those aforementioned thighs.

Seems neither of them have a leg to stand on anyway, as Bertha’s familiar three-whistle blast has come and gone in the time they’ve been here—trading wet, soft-lipped kisses in the orange light. Theo’s arms are still laced around his neck, and Jacob can feel that thudding heart against his own.

"Can you not _bear_ to be without me for _one_ day?" He grins into their kiss, hands hooked at Theo’s hips, roving from there to his bloke’s slip-thin waist.

“ _You’re one to bloody talk_ ,” Theo mumbles, and licks inside his mouth until Jacob’s knees are weak. 

Honestly they’re both useless at saying goodbye; he should have known. 

"Why don't you come with me? Stay on the train."

“ _Can’t_ ,” Teddy groans, and they’ve already discussed this, but it was worth another try. Could bring his man aboard, commandeer a private cabin. Show that tiny cot some action. “Gotta see Ned tomorrow. Make an appearance, before I get sacked.”

Today has been infinitely precious, every moment, and it’s not just the amazing sex: they’d laid together in the tangled sheets after that, sun pouring through the windows, Theo’s curly head safe on his chest. He’d murmured shyly about the new book he's begun reading, the one with the single volume, told of all his favourite passages so far. Jacob had played lazy fingers down his skin and asked thoughtful questions, interested in every fascination, every thought Teddy gifted him, thinking privately to himself that falling in love is the grandest fucking thing he’s ever done. 

Even so, he still wants more time with his fella. 

All of it. 

"This _sticking-to-the-rules_ _thing_ is going to be a problem." His whisper is dangerous, nipping at Theo's ear with a smile, feels him shudder. "Might have to break them."

Ted moans, rough and ragged into his throat, and if they keep at this much longer, he's guessing clothes are gonna find their way to the floor again. 

Not that he’s complaining, mind. 

“ _Tomorrow_ ,” Theo murmurs, those hands sliding down to tug at Jacob’s lapels. “We can break every rule you want.”

He groans, fisting hands in Teddy’s open shirt, Theo’s words of this morning still fresh in his mind: denying him the garret’s spare key, daring Jacob to find another way inside, to break in and _ravish_ him. 

"Remember, said I might get here late. _Don't wait up_." 

Jacob would be lying through his teeth if he said he wasn’t looking forward to that.

“Later is _better_ ,” his fella reminds, already dragging fingers down Jacob’s spine in a way that gets him going, and goddamn—fooling around with Teddy is really waking him up to a few new things about himself. Namely, he can get hard from those hands on his… _everything_.

"Workin' Friday?" 

Maybe Ted could take care of that… rather than Jacob strolling down the road with half a hard-on. 

“ _Mm._ Lockwork.”

Jacob snags one of those trailing hands and brings it around, shoving Theo's palm against the front of his trousers. 

" _That_ sounds optional, to me." 

“It’s _not_ ,” Theo says, already unbuttoning Jacob’s fly and tugging him out, stopping once to lick his hand before continuing on. 

He lets out a shuddered breath, "But what if—I'm languishing _alone_ —” Steals one dizzying glance to witness that fist getting him fully hard, those clever fingers claiming him, "—right _here_."

“You’ll _survive_ ,” his bloke smirks, leaning in for another kiss, and then Jacob isn’t thinking of anything at all. Gives in to the overwhelming sensation of Teddy’s hand, and the lips on his, and the filthy sounds of his own pleasure, trading sloppy kisses back and forth for a mortifyingly brief time until he’s gasping, coming all over Theo’s fist.

Nearly blacks out when Theo licks the spunk off his dripping fingers and tucks him neatly back into his trousers, nuzzling his chin. 

“Little something to remember me by.”

Jacob kisses him again, giving himself some time to gather what little wit he has left, still not wanting this to end, or to leave Ted’s side. 

“How could I _ever_ forget…”

On that note he tries one last time, tilting his head with a wheedling little smile. “Sure you can’t come with me?” 

“You know I can’t.” 

He does, but it was worth one last go.

Admitting defeat, Jacob finally drags himself away, unlatches the window and climbs on out. A bit of a breeze hits his face, crisp air unfouled by the ugly smokestacks rising in the distance. Cooler than he’s accustomed on a late summer day, but the gust isn’t enough to knock his cap askew—a pretty thing on loan from Ted, since Jacob forgot his own too late to return to the train last night. Truth be told, he felt a bit naked without one. Not that it’s mattered till now.

Jacob leans over the edge of the clattering roof tiles, beholding a window planter the next floor lower, then some wooden ledges a stop below that. Should be a quick one-two to the pavement, no problem. 

He glances back Teddy’s way, seeing his guy propped on the open window ledge watching his every move. Jacob cracks his knuckles and grins, flicking the brim. 

“Cheers for the hat.”

Theo smirks, flicks a stray curl out of his own eyes. “Cheers for the flowers.”

Jacob inclines his head, unbeknownst to Teddy lining his feet up for his landing, and smiles, “Don’t go kissing any other blokes while I’m not here.”

Ted’s grin could challenge the sun and walk away the victor. “Hurry back, then.”

“Like I never left.”

Departing with a promising _wink_ he steps off the edge of the roof, allowing himself to drop straight from view. The last thing he sees of Ted is his bloke’s pretty face breaking into shock. 

“ _Jacob_!” 

He lands with a _thud_ on the window box, the wrought metal frame reverberating from the impact but that was hardly even a floor’s worth of fall. 

“Don’t worry!” He calls back, peering over his current footing to spy the next ledge down, descending until the firmer shock of the pavement hits the balls of his feet, back on solid ground once again. 

He makes his way across the road only to turn and raise a cheery wave in Teddy’s direction. The concern Jacob can see even from down here appears to vanish, replaced by relief. 

Oh ye of little faith, Ted.

There are others milling around, workers splitting from their yards and carriages passing by beneath the elevated tracks. A couple walking arm in arm heading up the slight hill towards him. Jacob envies what they’re allowed to do before he steps aside, lets them pass, and then turns to gaze up at Teddy again.

He sees the man raise his hand, sending his fingertips to touch those soft pink lips, then blows a kiss downwards. Jacob’s smile is radiant by the time he reaches up and grabs the drifting goodbye, makes a show of catching it gently in his hand, then placing it carefully within an inside pocket of his coat. He sees Teddy laugh.

With one more doff of his fella’s cap, he’s finally on his way to the station, wondering when the train is going to be round again.

He _might_ just have time to return.  
  


* * *

  
Taking the last flight of stairs two at a time, Jacob heaves a heavy sigh once he reaches the fourth floor, straightening up.

He needs to start running laps or something.

Not long ago, and much to his chagrin upon finally arriving at the train station, he’d discovered Bertha wasn’t due round again for another _hour-and-a-bloody-half_ , so thought he might as well do something that could _almost_ count for productive in the interim.

On the corner of Bedale Street slap-bang outside London Bridge station, there are two pubs facing each other: _bitter_ rivals, if you will. Both of them Dukes, of the York and Wellington variety. 

No one can possibly fathom how much willpower it took Jacob to walk right on by. 

He also very wisely decided _not_ to return to Ted’s for the wait, knowing full well that once he was back in his bloke’s bed covers, he’d never leave again. 

Instead, he’d chosen for somewhere even closer to the station than Teddy’s, although not quite as near as the pubs. 

The flat cap he’s borrowed from his bloke now sits wonkily atop his head, isn’t too dissimilar from the ol’faithful he’d lost when he was taken. This is a fetching earthy green rather than blue tweed, but it’s _Teddy’s_. No complaints here.

Jacob picks it up to smooth back his restless locks, trying to fit his fingers through the tangles; needs to wash the oil out back on the train as well. Grins to himself thinking how that oil came to be there, trails a finger lovingly along the edge of the cap like he’s touching the fella himself.

Back in the room, Jacob heads on into the empty reception. Large paintings loom on the rich dark walls, some oddly-shaped glass sculpture wotsits sit precariously on pedestals between, glinting in the afternoon light. 

Some things never change.

Wynert’s like a bower bird lining his nest with shiny things. Looks to have acquired a few more pieces adorning the place, but Jacob only truly has eyes for the view through the windows.

It’s incredible, as always. 

Located precisely on the riverside, a three minute walk from the station and in sight of London bridge itself as well as the railway. Three (four, if you’re picky) huge warehouses all interconnected, five stories each, its own river inlet, access road, and loading dock: it's got everything a thriving criminal with a hush-hush cloak-and-dagger enterprise could ever wish for.

Ned has some seriously good holdings here.

Turning away from the sweeping view Jacob lifts his cap again to fit it right and saunters on over towards the open office, breath thoroughly returned.

When he reaches the doorway, there’s a faint _twinkle_ of a delightful tune floating through the air—can’t tell where it’s coming from, enchanting his ears nonetheless. 

That magnificent view from the reception continues on, in here: the bustling river Thames, and the city stretching out behind. St. Paul’s shining away above it all, untouchable to most, but not Jacob. 

He’ll have to give scaling that dome a go one day soon. Not now, though— _now_ , he has a bone to pick with a certain businessman.

Against the towering heights of the city, Jacob finds himself grinning when he spies the man himself.

Ned’s examining papers spread about his massive desk, glass of amber already poured. Sat in the expanse of heavy dark wood and the stately backdrop, the American looks even more bantam than he actually is.

Reminds Jacob of the day they met, watching Ned’s trim figure cut a path down the car. The bloody swot had popped up to take a look at the shiny locomotive—under new management, as it were—an engine he'd had his eye on for some time, apparently. Jacob had been distracted, prowling the carriage and eager to get some Templars under his belt. Too busy sniping with dear sister to truly take stock of Wynert himself. 

Anyway, Ned left his card, and buggered off as quickly as he'd shown up. Jacob hadn't seen a fella like Ned before, five-foot-nothing and smooth, fair features—said as much to Evie afterward, while she just looked at him like he was thick. Ned hadn’t always been seen as a _bloke_ , she’d finally clarified, and then Jacob _did_ feel thick, a bit.

Though aside from the suit-cuffs hanging past his slim wrists—the man could do with a better tailor—blokehood seems to suit Wynert just fine.

And Jacob’s hardly one to judge, especially now that he's fucking a guy on the regular. He hopes.

Jacob props himself leant against the doorjamb, lips tipped up at the corners.

“After hours with Wynert; what a treat.”

Ned at once spins in his chair, that canny face shifting into a gracious grin, slim arms open and waving in delighted welcome.

“Frye! Glad to see you’re still kicking.”

“ _Kicking_ , _punching_ … I do it all.” Jacob takes the affable greeting as cause to join him. “Saw your secretary on the way up, told me I’d find you boozing. Lo’ and behold...”

“Like hell he did. Come in then, if you swear not to drink all my bourbon.”

“I never make promises I can’t keep.” 

Crossing over the fine Persian rug, he spots a polished box beside Wynert's inkwell: looks expensive, and valuable. It’s surely the source of the tune, and Jacob wrinkles his nose in thought; he’s definitely heard the song before… 

He tugs out one of two chairs opposite Ned and sinks down into the red leather seat, already leaning back like he’s the comfiest he’s ever been. 

Ned reclines much the same, looking like he’s been off-duty, so to speak, for a good short while: no hat and a loosened tie, that clipped, coarse ‘do sloppier than usual.

Jacob rarely, if ever, sees him so casual.

“I was surprised to find out you’re still in business, what with me not being around.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ned scoffs, turning in his fine leather chair to faff with a crystal decanter, and another matching tumbler, from the glass cabinet behind. Sets them both upon his desk, pouring a few generous fingers before sliding the glass across towards Jacob. 

“Besides. Your sister’s _quite_ the collaborator.” 

The inflection is enough for an eyebrow raise from Jacob, unsure of exactly what Ned is getting at. 

Probably best for his marbles that he doesn’t find out.

He pushes up his hat and takes the glass with an obliging grin, throwing back a hearty swig, and _oh boy_ , he forgot how strong this stuff is. Could burn the barnacles off a barge, _Christ_. 

“I wouldn’t quite put it like that but, sure.”

The aftertaste isn’t half bad though, a smoky sweetness left lingering on his tongue. 

Ned only smirks and reaches for the fag left smouldering in an ashtray by his elbow, taking a long drag before blowing smoke to the ceiling. 

“So,” Ned starts, leaning back in his chair. “To what do I owe the visit?”

Jacob keeps his smile level, and tries not to pull a face at the acrid smell finding his nose. Makes him want to sneeze. “Nothing much, thought I’d drop by and see a mate. Was in the neighbourhood.” 

“Ah.” Ned regularly gives the impression that he knows every single dark and sordid secret of your past, and is selling them to the highest bidder as he speaks.

But in a _friendly_ way. 

“Been keeping yourself busy, then?”

A sly smile sparks at the thought of just _how_ he’s been keeping himself busy.

But he’s not telling Wynert that.

While Jacob _loves_ a bit of gossip, especially when it’s about himself, he respects Ted; will leave it up to the man himself to inform his boss of... anything, nothing, or all of it. Completely his decision. 

“Here and there, you know. Had my first job back couple nights ago. Went well.” 

“Glad to hear it. Bad luck, about your hand." Another drag, smoke curling lazily in the air between them. Jacob turns his head to take a breath without fag fumes, but clocks Ned’s genuine look of concern. "Feeling any better?”

He’s a bit surprised his injury is known, but he supposes the man's more clued into Jacob’s business than say, Freddy is. If anyone could crack the adage, it'd be the man sat opposite him: a true blood-from-stone wrangler. 

"As much as that sort of thing can." 

“Good.” Ned doesn’t pry, knocks back another sip of whiskey instead. Jacob appreciates that about him: no maudlin dwelling or beating around the bush, just frank and direct. Must be the American in him. 

“If you’re up to it, I’m expecting some valuable shipments in the coming weeks—a few cart hijacks, a train robbery or two. Could use a man like you, Frye. What d’ya say?”

Case in point.

“I’m in.” Jacob tilts his glass, swishing the liquid before a quick sip. “The usual? A few pieces here and there, I get to keep anything else that happens to take my fancy?”

“Of course.”

He nods. “Send any specifics through the usual channels. I’ll take care of the rest.” The usual channels being note-by-Rook, and the rest being his job, and doing it fucking well. 

“Wonderful.” Ned clears his throat, setting his glass on the desk with a thud. Laces his fingers together. 

If Jacob didn’t know any better, he'd say a 'but' was on its way.

“You know I hate being indebted to anyone, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.” 

Jacob blinks, completely lost as to what he’s on about. 

“I owe you my thanks: Neill’s the best lockpick I know.”

Ah, _that_.

His smile finds its way back to him, turns into more of a smirk, trying to crack that impassive facade perched opposite, drag some emotion kicking and screaming into the room, “And also a _fine person_? Worth saving for that alone?”

Ned rolls his eyes behind his specs. “Obviously.”

“Has Te— _Theo_ , told you what happened?” He knows very well that Teddy did tell him, and specifically recalls that Ned was apparently _very interested_ in finding out details. Is most likely fishing for more.

“He mentioned you ripped a _door_ off its hinges.” Ned’s smirk is a question and a challenge in one. 

Jacob picks up the gauntlet.

“ _Hm_ , not quite: I ripped the door _out_ of the wall. The cell door, the bars.” The clarification earns him a single raised brow, and Jacob presses on after a drink, tilting his head. That perky little tune is _so_ familiar, that modulation, if only he could recall…

“ _Vivaldi_!” 

“What?” Wynert blinks at the sudden detour. “Oh—it’s a Reuge, from Switzerland. Pretty thing, isn’t it.”

“Bet it wasn’t cheap. Or would be, if you hadn’t nicked it.” Jacob smirks, eyeing the music box still tinkling alongside Wynert’s elbow.

Ned smiles, affably. “Perhaps I bought it.”

Jacob scoffs into his glass, taking a slow swig.

Knows he was right about it being stolen when Wynert only spreads his hands, pleasantly side-steps the whole affair. “You were saying?”

Jacob spends a second trying to recall what they were speaking of. “The keys for _my_ coop didn’t work for his, so I had no choice but to rip it out of the wall. Couldn't very well leave him there.”

Ned takes up his fag once more, twirling the end between his slender fingers. “Impressive.”

Reminds Jacob of a cat toying with a mouse.

But it’s rare to receive a compliment so forthcoming from Ned Wynert, and Jacob steeps in it: takes another sip of bourbon, feels the drink pleasantly dulling his thoughts. “ _And_ that twisted ankle meant he couldn’t walk most of the way, so I ended up carrying him out.”

“Awfully gallant of you,” Ned offers, settling the cig between his lips. “Must have earned your trust, for you to bring him onboard your train.”

“We were in there four shitty days and only had each other to talk to. I sussed him out.” 

“I’ll bet.” 

Jacob raises a brow at the pointed tone while Ned drains his glass, motions casually at him with the burning end of the fag. “You know, I would have kept him on without your interference, but your concern _was_ touching.”

Jacob can play at smug self-importance just as well.

An Evie-Special, if you will. 

"It was, wasn’t it?” 

Wynert scoffs and places down his empty tumbler, Jacob switches his from being held in his left, to his right. 

“We’re mates now. You know, he was worried you’d think _he_ nicked the shipment. Which honestly, says more about you and your operation, than anything regarding me.”

Jacob sits back, almost melting over his chair he relaxes so much, electric eyes watching Wynert all the while: Ned, for his part, merely shrugs.

“Losing shipments is part of the job, comes with the territory. But Neill’s an honest man among thieves. In three years with me, he’s never put a foot wrong, never lost so much as a silver thimble. Only follows that he’d be anxious.”

And there it is.

Jacob’s in, for the _entire_ reason he came here tonight. 

Keeping his tone pleasant, chummy, Jacob tries valiantly to stifle his need for Ned to take this seriously. 

“I’d be anxious too, if I was his size and had no weapons or back-up at a meet.”

Wynert only takes another slow inhale on his damned cig, huffs out whirls of curling smoke. “Frye, I’ve run smuggling in this city for the last _decade._ You want to go unnoticed, you don’t parade around with an escort. Nine times out of ten, it’s that simple.”

Here he goes again with the _decade_ thing, bloody old man. “I’m not even suggesting an escort, just arm them.”

Ned takes another slow drag, then steeples fingers beneath his chin. “Say I follow your advice, send every man out with a firearm. Half my crew have never fired so much as birdshot, and I don’t have the time to personally train each one. Are you offering?”

Jacob takes a moment to think, caught off guard by the rapid fire. “I could train... a _few_. Not all.” 

He’d more than happily show Teddy how to hold a big barrel.

“A _few_.” Ned just watches him over the burning tip of his fag, like he’s waiting for Jacob to elaborate. “ _Frye_.”

“Hm?” Jacob blinks, having been staring at the last line of bourbon sitting in his tumbler, mind on Ted. “Believe it or not, I _also_ don’t have the time to train your entire organisation." 

Ned sits back, seemingly unmoved. Jacob tries a different tact.

"What if I sent some guns? Each go round, have a Rook with an iron, on-cart."

“Were you perhaps _listening_ when I said armed escorts are a no-go? I appreciate the offer, truly. But your gang wouldn’t know discretion if it bit them in the ass.”

Jacob almost laughs, grins so bright you'd think he was, pointing a finger at Ned and those tweaked brows. "Now _that's_ catchy. Might make it our credo."

Wynert chuckles and shakes his head, taking another lengthy drag. “Oh, Frye. I’ve missed you.”

"Alright, compromise. A Rook with a long iron at the supposed meeting joint?" He watches as the tiniest trace of interest piques on Wynert's surprisingly wrinkle-free face, trap baited. "That way we both win: you, with no extra presence tipping your buyers off, and I… get to keep my lads in a job."

His hesitation was a nod to what Jacob’s really getting out of this: peace of mind knowing that Teddy's going to be safe wherever he travels. That what happened almost three weeks ago (Christ... is that all it's been?) won't be happening again. 

But Ned doesn't need to know that little detail.

"And any other job your guys might happen to go on. Just let me know and you'll have all the help you need." Jacob sniffs, takes a drink. Applauds himself for casually keeping Theo’s name out of his mouth, though he aches to speak of him again.

“Hm,” is all Ned says, ostensibly watching smoke curl from his half-through cigarette, but Jacob can see those gears a-turning. Silently congratulates himself when Ned turns that rich, calculating gaze his way, smile ghosting across his face.

“Send your best deadeye to the rooftops of Scoresby Street, Friday morning. Cart should be in place before ten, we’re expecting a handoff on the hour. Three crates.” Ned taps his chin with a thumb. “All goes well, we’ll discuss installing your sharpshooters on a permanent basis. Deal?”

"Deal." Jacob tips back the remainder of his drink in victory. 

He’ll have to ask for the name of that street again; he’s already forgotten.

And while his mind is on the subject and somewhat looser than before, “And if you ever _do_ want your thieves to learn their way around an iron, I could, train Theo. He can pass it along to the rest of your men.” 

When Ned sits back in his leather chair, his head doesn’t even reach the headrest. 

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.” Wynert says with a smile, topping up his own glass and refilling Jacob’s while he’s at it. “Besides, I’d say _Theo'_ s time and considerable talent are better spent elsewhere. Unless you know something I don’t.”

Drink topped, Jacob kicks his feet back on the edge of Ned’s desk, takes a short swig, feeling it burn down his throat. 

“ _Mmhmm_ , the talent _is_ considerable.” Talent? Try cock. Jacob smirks past his glass. “And know what? All I know is, I won’t be around to save your damsels next time.”

Ned eyes his boots with some distaste, but picks up his tumbler instead, swirling his whiskey and wearing a devil’s grin. “Too busy getting your neck chewed on?”

Not gonna lie, he's a bit surprised at the notice, although honestly he shouldn’t be: Teddy painted the town red, _several_ shades of it, and some purple too, adding to what was already there from the fight club. 

Jacob just rearranges his face into something more pleased, not embarrassed one bit.

"Think I'm owed a bit of respite, after my ordeal." 

Ned smirks, tilting his glass in the burnished glow of the dying day. “Maybe let your tart know that. Look like you’ve been through the wars.”

Jacob laughs, fitting Ted's unimpressed little mug alongside the word 'tart'. He'll have to tell him. 

" _Maybe_ I enjoy tough love." 

Ned blows a smoke ring at the ceiling, conversational. “Not above a bit of that, myself.”

Jacob appreciates the new direction, shifting the conversation away from work at least: he's had enough of that for today, thanks. Especially since the entire reason he came here is done and dusted, his half-lidded stare saying as much— _Christ,_ this sauce is damn strong. 

Perhaps he'll snag Ned as a new drinking buddy, move on from shop talk to something more... enlightening. At least his booze is decent and won't cost. 

Jacob tries to keep his words crisp, head clear. 

Doesn’t really happen.

"Care t'elaborate?"

Ned just grins, that wicked smile again. “You ever been bound to a bedpost?”

Definitely moving on.

"Hm, _no_. But it sounds like a fine time." 

Sure would be interesting, with Theo. They'd need some strong ropes, to make a good enough knot, he could get some from—

“Oh,” Ned chuckles darkly, twirling his cig. “It _is_.”

Ned elaborates on his position a little more, and Jacob isn't certain if it's what the man is revealing, or the booze that's making his cheeks heat like a coal fire. 

Either way, this is absolutely not where he thought his night would be headed, but he's all aboard, full steam ahead to good times. 

Jacob takes a long knock of bourbon to give the process a bit more of a push: been too long since he got coopered, and he’s sure his tolerance is far lower than usual. 

Probably another thing about his body that fucking place fucked up.

Once Ned stops talking, Jacob answers through the bottom of his glass.

"Might have to try it, then."

He smirks as his mind runs two steps ahead, blissfully unheeded. Swishes the half-inch of liquid left inside before downing it quickly. He's still not outright admitting he's seeing Theo, but he can leave some breadcrumbs. Ned’s a smart guy, they're sharing personal shit now, right?

"...s'long as my _tart's_ up for it, o'course."

Ned barely bats a lash, though after stubbing out his fag, the smuggler curls his lips, leans across his desk with a funny look. 

“ _Frye_ ,” he says, and that rogue’s grin is suddenly back with a vengeance. Jacob blinks.

“Are you _fucking_ my favourite lockpick?”

The heaviness of the alcohol seeping through his head keeps Jacob’s expression unchanging, though he very nearly laughs his arse off, and chokes on his shock at once. 

Slowly peering up to the ceiling in false contemplation, he finally looks back at Ned, satisfaction scrawled wide across his mug, the furthest mile from embarrassed he could ever get. 

" _Yes_."

Ned _does_ laugh, throws his head back in his chair and jabs a finger at Jacob, snickering to the room at large. He’s never seen the man so amused, so loose. Maybe the booze is sneaking past that impenetrable veneer after all.

“Oh, you _asshole_. Of _course_ you are.”

Jacob settles the empty glass on the arm of his chair, tapping it with his two fingers, infinitely pleased and most definitely _sozzled_. 

"Y'don't seem very… _surprised_?"

Ned motions for Jacob’s tumbler, already pouring himself another round. “Frye,” he says patiently, as if the very idea of him _not_ knowing is absurd. “You’re _conveniently_ in the neighbourhood, covered in bite marks, wearing his _cap_ , and all on the very same day Neill begged off work. You’re not exactly subtle.”

It takes a long moment for understanding to take root in his swimming head, but when it finally does Jacob laughs, loud and freely. He failed to account for Ned’s keen eye, or how obvious he’s made himself in his affections: Jacob can feel his cheeks heat, sighing dreamily. “ _Yeah_ …” 

He slinks a bit further down in his seat, crossing over his feet still propped up on the table’s edge, all formalities long since chucked out the window. “Tell me more about this _begging_.”

Ned finishes topping up Jacob’s drink, the _clink_ of crystal sounding in a lazy toast between them both.

“Get your feet off my desk, and maybe I will.”

Jacob draws the glass closer towards him, scarred brow reaching for the ceiling.

“You’ll have to beg me for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that noise...?
> 
> I think it's the sound of a plot lumbering back into waking!
> 
> As a note regarding our dear Ned: as a trans writer myself, it felt important to me that his 'trans-ness' be mentioned. I know 99.9% of everyone reading this will have played the game and seen Ned and _know_ that he's trans already without it needing to be said. But again, personally, I felt I should acknowledge it in the text, not just assume that everyone reading knows this and never address it. 
> 
> I want that representation there in this story, not to take the already-laid groundwork for granted.   
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Bower bird** : the males of this species are known to build huge elaborate and highly-decorated bowers (nests/dwellings) in order to attract a mate. Seriously, they are incredible. Go on youtube and watch, you will not be disappointed
> 
>  **''Ned has some seriously good holdings here.''** : it took us a good long while but we undertook a scouting mission and found an actual place for Ned's business in-game! Location on Map [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/pkuoyq9x8p0242v/Ned%27s_Place_Map.png?dl=0) Overview [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/1k13yn9ztttyoyq/Ned%27s_Place_Closeup.png?dl=0) Viewed from the Thames [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/lyecuvdttddgrod/Ned%27s_Place_Thames.png?dl=0)
> 
>  **Bantam** : in the adjective sense it means tiny, diminutive. In Jacob's head, he's using it from two different meanings: several breeds of chicken characterized by their very small size when compared to their larger counterparts _and/or_ it's a weight class in boxing, another interest the lad has alongside birds (not going to mention that the first record of a title fight in this weight class was in 1889, because I am a professional and not in any way going to allow anachronism into my fic, nope)
> 
>  **Swot** : a particularly clever or well-studied person. Jacob’s just saying it here instead of 'nerd' 
> 
> **"Oh—it’s a Reuge."** : Charles Reuge, a Swiss watchmaker, began making musical pocket watches and boxes in 1865, a new-fangled thing for the time. You may find that name, 'Reuge', familiar within the game's setting... Michel Reuge, anyone? (or Michael Roog, if you're Jacob) I presume including that name attached to the musical boxes to be collected was a homage to the actual watchmaker himself. I thought it was a clever and cute little easter egg they added there
> 
>  **Coopered** : Victorian slang that can mean worn out, useless, or drunk


	20. calling to join them the wretched and joyful

"Help! _Anybody_! I need some help!"

Not for the first time today, Jacob snaps the reins and curses Freddy Abberline and his witless principles.

Harvey Hughes is currently caged in the back of their freshest Rook growler—smacking on the shiny glass with greasy paws, and no doubt tearing up the spankin' new upholstery like a randy terrier. He’s also yelling at any and all passers-by that might hear his empty promises. 

" _Hey_! _You need money_?! _I can_ help you out!"

 _Loudly_.

Reason number one-hundred-and-fifty-one on Jacob’s shitlist of why today's pissing him off, and the day's not even on its feet yet. 

"You— _you_! I'll make it _worth your while_!"

Jacob grinds his teeth, scowling. The sun is barely over the horizon, not that it's halted this mother of a headache surging its way through his skull. 

" _Please_! Help!"

He also has his hood pulled down low, shoulders hunched. Not only for anonymity… honestly, not _even_ for anonymity… the sun is just blazingly bright to his pained eyes and they are _killing_.

After their monumental knees-up late into last night and early this morning had petered out, he and Ned had parted ways.

The last thing Jacob remembers is falling out the chair in Wynert's office… doesn’t even recall hitting the floor… how he managed to make it to the station, let alone onto the correct train... he'll never know.

Anyway, wait… where was he going with this? 

"I've got the right to _my freedom_! _Help_!"

Jacob closes his eyes and sends a long-suffering breath out through his nose, trying to keep his uncharacteristically-short fuse in check. 

"Uh— _Guv_ —"

Danny's worried cadence slices through his momentary calm. 

Opening his eyes, Jacob jerks the reins, making Marigold whinny in panic, just narrowly avoiding hitting a lamppost. 

_It was fine_. He had it under control.

The same Rook sat beside him looks far too distressed for his own good. With a glance over Jacob can see the white of the man's thick knuckles grasping onto his seat for dear life. 

Luckily they're already turning right onto Bedford Street which means they're close to the drop-off point. 

Lucky for their captive, too; another half-mile of the bastard’s howling, and Jacob would have surely broken his word on bringing him in _alive_. 

"I _ain't_ done _nothin'_ wrong!"

Soon enough they're pulling to a halt, parking the carriage in the shadowed alleyway, right up behind the inconspicuously-curbed police wagon hidden in the shade afore them.

Danny hops down, leaving Jacob a wide berth—a wise move, since he's not _really_ in a talking mood, with only one thing on his mind.

"Hello? _Help_! I've been _taken against my will_! Why have we stopped?!"

Jacob stalks over to the carriage door and unlocks it with one swift move, reaching inside for the snivelling weasel who _won't shut his fucking gob_ and drags him out by the collar—

"Wh-what are _you going to do with me_?!"

Not giving Hughes a chance to gain his footing, Jacob growls from the back of his sore throat, voice low and so close to the Blighter's clammy face, he'll be able to smell the booze on his breath.

" _If you don't shut your trap_ , _I'm going to paint this car red with your insides_."

The bloke appears to swiftly get the picture, which suits Jacob just fine: doesn't mean he still won't twist a handcuffed arm up behind the guy's back so he squeals, frog-marching him over to the rear of the piggy-bank that's ready to receive a new allowance. 

Jacob spots the copper already at the doors of the wagon, lookin' all prim and proper, one iron gate opened for visitors. 

“Good morning, gentlemen.”

Freddy’s doing that thing he likes to do, bouncing on the balls of his feet with hands clasped at his back, reserved little grin on his mutton-chopped face. 

Clearly jolly pleased with himself. 

Jacob can't understand why. Or fathom _why_ it’s such a good morning, not with the sun so goddamned _bright_.

Doesn't bother answering, merely stuffs his captive through the door, ignoring the bloke’s petty pleas as the man stumbles over himself, hits his shins on the step up and his head on the roof. Jacob slams the door closed in answer.

“Give you much trouble, did he?” 

"The catching? No. The racket? _Yes_."

Jacob huffs flatly, tossing Freddy the keys to the guy’s cuffs and watching him fumble the catch, bouncing off his chest. 

“Well.”

The sergeant hems and haws, casting an unimpressed look through the bars at his prisoner, before turning that studious regard upon Jacob: even with the uncommon hood drawn low over his face, half-hidden from Freddy’s view.

“Thank you so much, for _lending_ a hand.”

Even from beneath that hood Jacob sees the slight eyebrow waggle, the upturn of lips, and the subtle lean in; all indicative of a classic Abber- _line_.

Hughes, a crooked money _lender_. Bloody hell, Freddy.

Trust the brass to be _just_ endearing enough to sweeten Jacob's sour mood.

Despite himself, he still smirks, knowing the man will have spent the best part of his wait coming up with that. 

"My apologies, it wasn't a full one. But got the job done."

Freddy draws himself up taller, a pleased little smile simmering.

“More than. And now that this fellow’s under lock and key, I’ll be able to clear one more dossier off my desk. Thanks to you.”

Past Freddy’s shoulder, Jacob spots a couple of curious locals down the lane, giving them both the eye before drifting a secretive grin Freddy’s way. 

"You _could_ just tip them all in the bin, you know."

The copper merely raises one fluffy eyebrow in a manner that’s surely meant to be devastating, but comes out rather more comical.

“And what, pray tell, would you do without me? Once I’m dishonorably discharged from the Met for shirking, that is.”

"Why I'd make you a Rook, dear chap." 

That superior look at once melts into carefully-orchestrated outrage; chops shaking like ruffled feathers, so to speak—in terms of performance, it’s utterly delightful. Truly, Freddy’s wasted on ungrateful bobbies. With expressions like that, the man could triumph a career on the stage.

Jacob pats him on the shoulder, twice. "Get a lot more done in a _real_ organisation."

“Jacob,” Freddy huffs, though not very well, “I am a _sergeant_ in the Metropolitan Police force.”

"And for that, you have my condolences." Jacob smirks, sidling another step closer and hooking a thumb in his own belt, whispering. 

" _Are you going to show me your badge next_?"

“You’re impossible,” says Freddy, but the grin threatening to erupt beneath his charming tache as Jacob leans back says otherwise. 

"But not for you." He watches those apple cheeks turn pink from the corner of his eye, feeling smug.

Jacob cuts him a heavy serving of slack, changing the subject. 

"So. What exciting affair is Freddy Abberline off to next?"

“Booking our mutual friend Mister Hughes here into a cell, it seems.”

He half-rolls his eyes at the predictable answer, glancing over to see Danesh now sat patiently in the driver's seat, fiddling with the reins. Jacob’s nearly forgotten the man till now. He's rubbing the back of his shaved head and trying not to look bored, doubly so when he realises the boss is looking his way.

" _After_ that."

“After that, regrettably, a considerable amount of paperwork. Busy day ahead, I presume?” 

He notices Freddy admiring the cut of his new coat upon mention of the last, waving a loose hand at the getup. 

First time Jacob's worn it out in fact, and looking rather _suave_ in the light grey corduroy number paired with an embroidered navy waistcoat and herringbone trousers, if he does say so himself. The copper's appraising eye seems to say so too.

"You could say that. Off to a brothel." Jacob announces, sounding far more chipper than he feels. 

“ _Jacob_ ,” Freddy looks aghast. “It’s _seven_ in the morning.”

He barely mutes his amusement at his mate's shocked face, "Think it's too late?"

That line between Freddy's brows only etches deeper, and Jacob takes pity on his pained look.

"It's for work. I'm meeting, hopefully, a new contact."

“Ah.” Abberline clasps his hands behind his back, bushy brows piqued somewhere in the middle of his forehead. “Well. Good luck.”

"Won't need it. For some reason, dollies seem to love me." And _ex-dollies_ as well, Jacob thinks, half-wondering if Theo’s still in bed at this hour. Absently checks his pocket watch before remembering he never winds it. 

"What I _do_ need however, is breakfast." Jacob runs a tired hand down his face, "Still soused from last night." 

Freddy only stares, blinking at him like he’s trying to surreptitiously peer under his hood, gather particulars and piece together the event. Best of luck there, Fred—fairly certain getting greased with a high-time smuggler in his den of antiquity won’t be first, second, or even third on his hunch list. 

Ah, more’s the pity.

“Perhaps a good stiff cup of tea, would be the thing. Always does it for me.”

Of course it does. 

Jacob tilts his head, gains a bright grin at that most _helpful_ suggestion. "I think you're right." 

Stepping back nearer his own carriage, Jacob opens his arms towards Freddy, not losing the guy's sight.

"If you need any more help, you know where to find me."

The copper tips his head, hand brief over his heart in a show of genuine gratitude. “And you.”

Freddy has no right being so decent at this time in the morning, Jacob has no defence for it. 

He hops up in the passenger seat, declines the reins Danny offers him, and tells his Rook to get them home instead. Slouching back in the soft leather seat, Jacob kicks his feet up on the shiny crossbar. 

From this angle, Freddy can surely see the whole of Jacob's face, and certainly his smile.

"Make the mark more agreeable with my headache next time, Fred."

“Don’t drink yourself into a headache, next time. And it’s _Sergeant_!”

Those chops are quivering but Jacob can see the fondness behind his eyes, even as Danny backs the carriage up, then whips the reins to get Marigold moving forward. Jacob cards a salute through the air as they trot by Freddy, who watches them leave. 

Now, once he's finally back on the train, a wash, bit of grub, and perhaps a quick kip are in order before he pays a visit to some _unfortunate_ women. 

Fortunately for them, however, Jacob’s in need of their help.

* * *

Slowing to a stop, his boots plant unevenly in the centre of the cobbled side street. 

Peering past the note held in hand and up to the unassuming facade in front of him, Jacob’s scarred brow raises in doubt.

Looks just like every other modest building on the row. Modest for City of London, anyway.

He had thought to be clever, go round the back of the building, be _discreet_.

Though Jacob Frye will be first to admit, discretion isn’t always his strong suit.

But for all his efforts, the back door was locked tight. Every other brothel he’s ever passed, visited, heard of—well, they’ve had the back open for the discerning gentleman to come and go as he pleases. 

Not here, apparently.

Instead, the front door is wide open, lights peeking through gaps in the curtains, and what must be the low notes of a piano, music seeping out onto the street. 

Again, that doubt.

However, this _is_ indeed the place: number ten Fetter Lane, just as the madam's note states, in clear, flowing script. Jacob scans it again to make sure. 

Yep, this is the one.

Starting towards the door, Jacob straightens his tie, collar, tips up the brim of his hat— _perhaps he should take it off_ —and smooths his coat, hoping to appear competent, reliable. Well abreast of the situation.

With Evie’s _very helpful_ words still ringing in his ears from when he left the train— _don’t bungle this, Jacob, think with your head_ —he’s _thinking_ with nothing else, nerves gnawing down his spine. Had even asked Evie if she wanted to swap, let him take care of the child labour clearout in Southwark, while she took tea with new contacts: she had less-than-politely declined.

Truly, if he can bag this place as a steady source of information, it’ll be like landing a golden goose.

But if he mucks it up, he might as well chop off its head—

And his own, while he’s at it.

The main door is wide open, yes, but it’s dark in the entrance-way, with only the light from outside filtering in, paltry at best as the sky's kept gloomy and grey all morning. Ah, the joys of London weather. 

Squaring himself with a first step over the threshold, Jacob’s chuffed to hear nearby bells tolling noon—he’s made good time, better than expected; he only left the train at Whitechapel twenty minutes ago.

Though his smile slips off as a beefy-looking guy in the entry positions himself between Jacob and the rest of the house, looking him up and down in a rather less-agreeable way than Freddy had, this morning.

Jacob straightens up. Holds out his letter with a flick of his wrist.

“I’m here to see Madame Beatrice.”

The bloke—nearly a head-and-a-half taller than Jacob, when he stops in front of him—merely glances at the paper, with surely only enough time to clock the signature before he’s nodding, silent.

Jacob takes that as a go to enter, gets a step past before a meaty, unmovable hand plants itself firmly across his chest to halt him. The Assassin frowns.

“All weapons stay down here, with me.”

The bloke’s in his face now, looming down beneath brows that could make Dover cliffs blush. And the fella may be the taller, but Jacob’s not cowed—just sets his chin straight, blinking guilelessly into those slate grey eyes; shifts a slight ways back, and smirks.

“You look like you need the help.”

Bouncer Bob doesn’t seem too impressed with the caddish slip, but he can handle it, he’s a big boy, and Jacob knows when to back down. Usually.

So he slips out his pistol, handing the guy the butt first, followed by his kukri, his second-favourite knuckleduster, four throwing knives and a smoke grenade. 

_Please don’t see the gauntlet, Please don’t see the gauntlet, Please don’t see the—_

“And _that_.”

Shit.

Two awkward minutes of unfastening and unbuckling later, Jacob’s sans all his sodding gear and finally heading into the main parlour, minus the tiny flick knife he’s got hidden inside his coat, of course. 

If he wasn’t still irked at the loss of his weapons, Jacob would surely appreciate more the tableau unfolding before him: plush upholstery decorating every surface of the space; deep reds and dark woods. Soft lamps cast the whole place in a warm glow, windows draped floor to ceiling in heavy brocade. There’s even a fireplace crackling nearby. And is that a _bar_ he can spy in the back of the room, past the punters leaning on the rail and slurping their mugs? 

He loves this place already.

And in the middle of it all, a young woman sits at a piano in need of tuning, though it hasn’t impeded her performance: those fingers fly across the keys, busy plucking out a snappy riff on _The_ _Blue Danube_ waltz. She’s joined by a flurry of pretty painted women, all talking and laughing, perched on soft settees, flirting with clients. One such dolly, draped beside the piano, is giggling so animatedly that Jacob can’t help but stare:

It seems the cushions and drapes aren’t the only thing rich and _plush_ in here.

She’s as buxom as any woman he’s had the indecency to dream up, and it seems the admiration is mutual—after a moment her gaze finds his own, and he feels himself snared like a fish on a line. 

At once she’s sidling over, silky peach over-gown trailing in her wake: Jacob very consciously keeps his eyes fixed on hers, which happen to be a pretty dusky blue.

Locks of artfully curled titian hair fall about her soft round face, double chin creasing up as she grins, “ _Hello_ , handsome.” Fairly purring as she slips her arm through Jacob’s and tugs him close in a cloud of sweet floral perfume, helpless against it. 

“How about you follow me upstairs, and I’ll take you straight to heaven?”

 _Chuffing_ _hell_.

Jacob offers an easy smile along with the note, trying to keep this quiet, _discreet_ —they appear to have already amassed quite the crowd; the other girls seem to be watching, and their paying gents as well.

"I'm here to speak with Madame Beatrice?" 

Up this close he can see the woman's fine freckles dotting her cheeks, and they could give Evie’s a run for their money. Her inviting expression lessens somewhat with the new information, but she doesn’t let go of his arm.

“Oh,” says the woman, brows scrunching as she squints at the letter, button nose nearly brushing the ink. Huffs a pretty little sigh.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says again, more sorrowfully this time. Patting sweetly at his arm as she lowers her voice to match. “Well, you’ll be wanting Miss B, then. I’ll take you to her, but mind, she doesn’t play coy like us dollies. Business face on, handsome! Play along for a tick, be a love.”

Barely having time to grasp any of that or why he needs to, he catches her eye as she's turning him around. 

"It's Jacob."

Don't get him wrong, it's great having a fit lass say just how she finds you, but he'd rather be hearing it from Theo.

“Righty-ho, you charmer. _Amelia_ , but I’ll answer to whatever you like.”

And then she’s ushering him towards the carpeted stair, winking one heavily-flounced eye as she calls out, loudly. 

"First timer, here, ladies. Going to show him the _ropes_. Think they're still in the third drawer down."

A chorus of titters and a few envious looks chivvy them up the steps, and Jacob flushes despite himself. 

First fucking timer, indeed.

"Come on, love. You'll be the prettiest thing I've had between my legs since I broke my porcelain pecker."

Amelia ferries him up to the first floor, stroking his bicep all the while, and winking left and right at every other working girl in view.

"Sight for sore eyes, coming through!"

He feels a bit like a pig being pulled through the proverbial market, with so many interested eyes turned his way: Jacob’s not entirely convinced how to feel about that.

He's herded towards a door near the stairs marked _Private_ , Amelia knocking when she finally lets go of his arm.

"Don't worry, love, she won't bite. _Hard_."

The wicked little smirk on her plump face doesn't really give him cause for reassurance, returning her smile with a weak one of his own as he slides off his hat, folds it up to shove inside his coat. 

Facing the looming door, Jacob desperately hopes he looks more prepared than he _feels_ , more thrown right now than a six in Lords. 

Without pause a voice on the other side calls to enter, and Amelia bundles him inside. Propping her chin on the doorjamb before Jacob can get a word in edgewise, she addresses the foreboding-looking woman on the other side of the room, sitting stately in a high-backed chair behind her desk.

“Hiya Miss B, this fine gent’s brought your letter. Jacob, is it? Ain’t he a dream. Right, I’ll fetch the girls, be just a mo.”

And then he’s being propelled further into the room by one canny push, the door slamming shut behind him. 

It’s an office—finely appointed, probably, with a lush damask settee at the corner of his vision, tall ferns and oil paintings dotted around. Not unlike the rest of the premises then, but somehow _nicer_.

Jacob pastes on a charming smile, stepping closer towards the vacant seat opposite the desk, head slightly bowed in respect. 

"Jacob Frye, madam. More than a pleasure to meet you."

“Mister Frye.” The woman rises from her seat with a swish of skirts, pinning him with a long, discerning look before extending an assured hand. 

“Welcome. Beatrice Worth. I trust you’re here by way of my proposal.”

He shakes her hand with a hearty grip. 

“I am.”

She’s handsome, with nut-brown hair in a netted bun, and a shrewd affect beneath discreetly painted lips—perhaps twice his age, though Jacob has no way to know for sure. The subtle lines beneath her eyes hint at aging far more gracefully than he ever hopes to do. 

“Please. Be seated.”

And utterly unencumbered by his presence, it seems. A lady in her line of work is probably used to assessing strange men, Jacob supposes. 

Gets straight to the point. 

“Your letter mentioned you require some assistance, and believe that we can provide it.”

Her gaze narrows. “You’re an associate of Henry Green, then.”

"I am. A fellow Assassin. I'm also leader of the Rooks."

Raising one slim brow, the madam tilts her head, and Jacob feels like he’s being silently appraised from neatly-slicked hair, all the way down to the toes of his boots.

“I’ve heard a great many things, Mister Frye.” 

Oh, alright.

Jacob's smile increases, ever so.

“Your victory in Whitechapel has not gone unnoticed here. In fact, Blighter presence has only increased, especially of late. The effect on my business has been… considerable.”

His smile shrinks.

Greenie… did mention something like that, come to think of it. A duty to ease further unrest in the City, stemming indirectly from their victory in Whitechapel—Jacob wasn’t entirely convinced, at the time. Still isn’t, though he is not so cold as to disregard their plight. Common courtesy to hear her out, at least. 

“And for that, I give my apologies. But the marginalised in one portion of the city cannot be neglected for the comfort of the more fortunate in another.”

Beatrice appears surprised, but almost pleasantly so, holding up a hand. “Just so. I admire a man of principle, Mister Frye, and it seems that you are—so perhaps you will understand that when I speak of business, I refer not to profit or income, but to the lives at stake.”

He respects that, of course, but didn’t mean to value the lives of these girls less than, say, a brothel in the Chapel. Sounds like she operates this place similar to how he does the Rooks.

“I run a clean house, highest standard, but those Blighter bastards have come round to stir trouble more and more lately. They’re rough with my girls—Milton had to throw a pair of them out just Tuesday, for making free with our youngest, and they didn’t go quietly.”

She lets out a short, sharp breath, clearly angry but pressing on. Jacob more than understands why. 

“In return for the protection of your Rooks, we will be willing to offer you the information Mister Green sought previously.” 

The madam pins him with a proud, defiant jut of her chin, unbowed even in asking for assistance.

“The safety of my girls is paramount. I hope you will consider my offer, for their sake.”

Jacob keeps his anger at the Blighters, _and_ enthusiasm to help, under wraps, although really, this sort of thing is _why_ he created his gang in the first place. Helping the underprivileged and vulnerable, those who need the aid? 

And the madam is hardly the retiring wallflower, instead straight to the singular point in that she’s here to look after these women, and her priority is not profit, nor keeping the machine grinding. 

Makes Jacob want to give more; help, _more_.

Though before he can articulate a single word, there’s that familiar rap at the door.

Following the madam’s level gaze past his shoulder, Jacob sees Amelia’s cheery face round the cracked door, those golden-red ringlets bobbing.

“Back again, Miss B. Soz for the delay, Daisy was seein’ to a fella’s _fella_ , if you know what I mean—oh. Sure you’re ready for us girls?”

Beatrice motions her inside with a hand, focus firm while she addresses Jacob. He stumbles quickly to his feet, knocking his shin on the desk.

“Four of my best. Should you wish to partner with us, these ladies will be your informants. Amelia, you’ve met.”

Indeed he has: and as the very lass finds his eye with a comely grin, Jacob’s overwhelmed by another fog of orange-blossom perfume.

“ _And ain’t I the lucky one for it_.”

Amelia trails a finger down his lapel, leaving with a _wink_ to thump gracefully in the empty chair beside his own. Jacob smirks down at her with an eyebrow raise, tickled. He’s nearly used to her unashamed antics by now. 

He’s sure he’ll regret thinking that, later.

The door snaps shut behind, and a trio of silk-clad ladybirds settle onto the settee, lightly shuffling each other to make room. They’re as varied in appearance as the four seasons, and Jacob recognises not one of them from the parlour—although his lovely abductor from earlier may be responsible for that. 

“Ladies, may I present Jacob Frye. Leader of the Rooks, it seems: we were just discussing how they might aid us, in return for our knowledge.”

With all present seated, Jacob slowly takes his chair, as Beatrice motions to the newcomers, clearing her throat.

“Daisy, Charlotte, and Tabitha—you won’t find a woman more discreet than these in all of London. They will be your eyes and ears in this house, and I would ask you to speak only with those in this room. My other girls know nothing of this arrangement.”

Ah, explains now why Amelia was hamming up his entrance. 

Assuming the order by way of introduction, Jacob turns to offer each a courteous smile, respectfully meeting their searching gazes one-by-one. 

The first has her head held high, thick dark hair twined up in braids that remind him of Evie, of the _many_ hours he spent in their youth twisting them for her. Daisy appears the complete opposite of Amelia in every way: reserved, long-legged, with deep brown skin and ebon curls, though she has nearly as many freckles dotting her shapely cheeks. 

Moving on, there’s a dinky brunette sandwiched in the middle, wide-eyed and buzzing with a nervous energy that gives her a timid air—although she’s sticking out a dainty hand for him to shake, which he does, delicately. Tries not to feel uneasy using his injured hand for it, even as she trills, sweetly.

“Call me _Lottie_.”

She giggles at his nod, seems to irk her seatmate with the girlish tittering; but Jacob finds her endearing, in a bittersweet way. Reminds him of Ruby.

And lastly, a head taller than the rest, Tabitha: the look she pierces him with would shrivel a lesser man, but Jacob keeps his smile firm, jaw set. He needs a good impression for these ladies to take him seriously; can’t have that if he’s cowering at the first sign of resistance. 

She offers a slender hand just as Lottie did, but he makes certain to give a solid shake. She puts him in mind of a schoolmarm—all business, with ash-blonde hair, and no dilly-dallying in anything about her. 

“Ladies, an honour.”

Looking at these ladies he can’t help but remember his old mates back in Crawley; thinks of doing this for them: _then_ he barely had influence to stop the milk cart, let alone tackle labour conditions and safety concerns for the working girls there. 

But here now, in London, Jacob has all the means and motivation in the world.

“Madame Beatrice, after thorough consideration, I've decided that we have a deal.” He leans back in the chair, sets an open hand over his heart, earnest and true. “You will have protection from my Rooks, _whenever_ you need it. You have my word.” 

The woman’s careful expression breaks into something softer, hope lining her faint smile as she clasps hands together, triumphant. “Excellent. I should think a member of your Rooks would not be opposed to remaining in the front parlour during business hours? We can provide tea, and conversation. While anyone who might seek to cause havoc, would think twice with both Milton and your man on site.”

Jacob nods in agreement with all of the suggestions, but he can absolutely do better. 

“You sure about just the one? I can provide three per shift.” 

She’s very good at hiding her surprise, but Jacob’s equally adept at spotting it. “Greater numbers will protect your house, clearly, but also provide a larger deterrent in the first place.” 

He watches Beatrice turn a look to her girls, an unspoken dialogue passing him by before she nods, steadily. “Three would be acceptable. Perhaps one in the parlour, two outside?”

Jacob shrugs with a smile, “Wherever you need them most. I’ll inform them to take orders from you, or anyone you might appoint.” 

“How many women do you have, in these Rooks? Can you send those.” Daisy interjects with a level stare, before the madam can speak further.

Jacob turns his head fully to address her, “Around half are women. I can make sure there’s at least one woman assigned at all times.”

She doesn’t seem very satisfied with that answer, Jacob waits for the reason. “ _Half_ your Rooks are women, but you can only guarantee one woman per shift? That doesn’t add up.”

He almost smirks at the challenge, rather enjoying the test. “They tend to prefer shorter shifts than blokes, and not all are adept in close quarters. So while we have the same number of women as men, I can’t guarantee there’s always a lass available. Many have children, or are carers. I wouldn’t force them to stick around here for a longer shift just to keep up the numbers.”

"We want to meet your Rooks, before." This time Tabitha makes the point, swiping a stray tendril out her eyes as she glances between herself and Daisy. "The men. Make sure they're up to snuff."

Jacob sees the two women nod, as if agreeing as one. He feels he's been fairly reasonable so far, but, if that's what they want… "Sure. That can be arranged." He doesn’t bother mentioning that _he_ himself vets each and every Rook before they're even allowed to put on a single splash of green, there's little point. "I won't be able to send all at the same time, but it can be done." 

Beatrice clears her throat, seems to call the room to order without a word. 

“That will be _more_ than sufficient, I think. Mister Frye, we will be glad for your help, and your Rooks. Perhaps I was unclear: the Blighter presence has grown, stirring up trouble with our girls, but that’s not all." 

Jacob sits up a little straighter, interest piquing. 

"Men in black uniform have approached me twice in the last month, extorting me for funds to keep this house open—and also two other houses nearby. I have reason to believe they are employed by one Crawford Starrick."

Now that is _very_ interesting, is it not. Beatrice appears to spot his recognition. 

"You’re familiar with him."

"You could say that. What did they say to you, exactly?" 

The madam’s sculpted brows draw together, tone dark. “They threatened to _shut me down_. Said they have friends in high places, and we could pay for their so-called protection or face the consequences—even named the Diseases Act. Said I could lose my girls to a reformatory, or worse.”

There’s a soft gasp from the settee, and Amelia reaches past him, leaning on the edge of his seat to pat Lottie’s hand reassuringly. 

“Won’t be happening, duckie.”

Beatrice looks to Jacob, too proud to implore but clearly hoping for his word. “No,” she says, staring him down all the while. “It _bloody_ won’t.”

He fully understands the severity of the situation, although he’s not going to pretend he knows better than these ladies. 

"We're stripping Starrick of his organisation, relieving him of his influential associates throughout the city. I can't give a time frame, but we _are_ actively pursuing him."

Tabitha folds firm arms across her chest, frowning. “Well while you’re _pursuing him_ , what about us? Those men will keep coming. They don’t look like they’re going to stop.”

She doesn’t sound particularly mollified, and Jacob can't blame her for it. Perhaps their madam hasn’t fully briefed them on the Assassins, on what they do. Or maybe Greenie never explained the details to her in the first place—he should be here.

“It was _frightening_ ,” Lottie whispers, and there’s a chorus of nods, murmured agreement. God, he hopes she wasn’t the one those bastards tried molesting.

It shouldn't have been _anyone_. 

"My Rooks are well trained for that, they've been dealing with Blighters and these blokes in black since the very beginning. If there's anything they can't handle, I'll step in personally."

Daisy hardly bothers to hide her scoff. “What can _you_ do, that an army of your men can’t?”

Well. He doesn’t want to brag, and aims her a demure smile instead.

"I can handle most situations." 

He returns focus back to Beatrice. "There's also Henry Green, whom you've met, and my sister. We're all available, and at your service should you require us."

The madam nods, seemingly accepting his proposed solutions: it's a relief, makes him feel like he’s doing a fair job explaining himself so far. 

To be honest, this whole thing’s beginning to feel like piggy-in-the-middle rather than an equal conversation: the ball constantly passing from one to another, sailing right over Jacob’s head. 

"You have a sister? How old is she? I bet she's pretty." Lottie leans forward, coyly.

Jacob grins. "We're twins, so same as me."

“And how old _are_ you?” Daisy again, pinning him with a cool stare.

He lingers a useless glance on the madam, hoping to be saved from what looks like a grilling—but she says nothing, and he resigns himself to the truth.

"...twenty."

Knows he was right to be cagey when every woman in the room, save Beatrice, makes some kind of noise in reaction—not all of them, _good_.

“Ooer! Told you ladies, he’s a pretty _young_ thing,” Amelia crows, and Jacob feels himself blushing scarlet.

“I don’t understand. How can you promise this? How can you command a gang so young?”

“ _Daisy_ , don’t be cruel.” Lottie saves him with a dark scowl to her seatmate, one that looks wrong on her young face.

Daisy only shares a silent look with Tabitha, while the diminutive brunette between them clasps her hands together, cheeks flushed dark.

"That's _right_ brilliant, Mister Jacob. Wish I could be flourishing so much. I'm twenty, too. Not twenty- _two_ , I mean twenty. Two-oh. Twenty as well."

"I'd say you're doing fairly well, being picked to help keep this place running, gather intel." The other women turn her way and Jacob grins upon seeing her go bashful, shake her head. Though Daisy and Tabitha seem unmoved: they're going to be tough ones to crack.

"She’s right, though." Tabitha frowns. "We're placing all our trust in him, but have no evidence to say it's well-given." 

She’s speaking past him to Beatrice, which tells him the madam's either not spoken to them in-depth about this whole situation; Greenie's original proposal, what she's clearly seen of the Rooks to bring her to choosing them for aid, the whole Assassin guff. 

Or maybe she has and they just enjoy making him sweat.

“I personally know Henry Green,” Beatrice says finally, tone firm. “He would not send Mister Frye if he did not trust him implicitly.”

“And Jakey here’s a right gentleman,” Amelia pipes up, batting him chummily in the arm, trailing her hand. “Can’t be worse off with help than we are now, can we?”

The rest of the women murmur to themselves, share a few glances and words over shoulders. Jacob doesn’t have a damn clue whether this is going his way or not.

“That depends.” Daisy speaks aloud, quieting the whispers. “Depends how his people are trained and if they really have their heart in it. Or if it’s just another job, one they can abuse.”

He can appreciate her wariness, especially regarding this, as Jacob’s mindful of it himself within the Rooks’ ranks. Changes his mind from earlier; perhaps there is a point to be made by mentioning this now.

“I can assure, each member has been thoroughly vetted, and I have appointees who keep an eye on every individual’s behaviour. Anyone abusing their position here will be moved along to another area, no exceptions.” And just to sweeten the deal, show he’s not light on this sort of stuff. “In rare cases I’ve had to suspend them from the group entirely. They’ll be treated no differently here.”

Her stare lessens somewhat, glancing at the other girls to see their reactions. For the first time he sees Daisy give a hint of a smile, turning into more of a smirk, “Hope they don’t think all this chivalry will get them a pop on the house.”

Amelia grins, jerking a thumb his way. “I mean, if they look anything like Prince Charming ‘ere—” 

“ _No one_ ,” Beatrice interrupts, “will be visiting our girls for favours. On that I will _not_ negotiate. Mister Frye, if those terms are unacceptable, please speak now.” 

He doesn’t know how he suddenly got roped into this particular point, but he is not going down with it. “No- _no_ , no favours. I’m with you. And I will inform everyone, on shift here or otherwise.” 

The madam nods once, curt, and that seems to be that. “Good. And we confiscate weapons at the door, but I would encourage your Rooks to remain armed, as long as they keep those arms concealed.”

“That won’t be a problem, they already do.” Jacob knows he brought a list of points that may need asking, tries to recall them now. “Any restrictions, on what they can bring? And do you need them to change their uniforms.”

Beatrice shakes her head, slowly. “No. I want them to know that we have the power of the Rooks behind us.” Opening a drawer, she plucks out a letter, sliding it across the desk to Jacob.

“The two houses I mentioned before, nearby. I know they find themselves in the same predicament—should you find our information beneficial, perhaps you would consider providing protection for them as well.”

Jacob takes the paper whilst she speaks, briefly skims through the addresses, contact names, and few words written out in refined script describing their issues. One on Coleman Street; the other higher, located in St. John’s Square. Good solid points in the City, it seems. 

This could be even more worthwhile than he first realised.

“I will certainly be in touch with them.” Folding the letter carefully, Jacob slips it in his coat for safekeeping. He needs to discuss this with Mister Montague and Miss Capulet, but Jacob’s fairly certain he can get them on-side.

"I can send my Rooks round first-thing Monday, if that suits you?"

“Monday it is.” Apparently satisfied with the arrangement, the madam trades him a cordial smile, folding hands atop her desk. “And now, Mister Frye, is there any information you’re particularly searching for? Anything that would especially benefit your organisation.”

Ah, yes. 

Jacob shuffles his notes from Greenie’s briefing the other day—mentally, of course, why the devil would he write them down?

“Do you know anything of Malcolm Millner, and this recent slew of property damage and attacks across the city? He owns The Greater London Omnibus Company.”

“Malcolm Millner...” Beatrice echoes slowly, looks to be having a bit of a think herself.

“Oi, ain’t that the chappy who’s been burning up buses? The fire on the corner, last week.” 

How did he expect Amelia to know, out of all the girls… or at least be the first of them to pipe up.

Then it’s Lottie’s turn, a delicate squeak sounding at her recollection. “Oh, yes! One of my regulars said he _saw_ it happen.”

Daisy huffs, smirk on her plum-painted lips. “I think he was pulling your leg, love.”

Lottie shakes her head, patting Daisy’s knee to emphasise, “No, it was true! I—” She suddenly stops, and turns her bright stare towards Beatrice, who gives her an indulgent nod, encouraging her to continue. 

“I asked him, I asked more, I did. Bloke said there were a group of men, five of them, dressed in red. They beat up the driver, then took the bus off the street and poured fire on it. Then he didn’t tell me anything else, got too worked up for talking.” She tucks a trailing lock of hair behind her ear, shy at the attention.

“That’s the one,” Amelia cuts in, slapping a hand on her ample thigh. “You could smell it burning down the road! Put me right off my gents all evening, had to shut the windows.”

“Sounds like Blighters, alright.” Jacob frowns in thought, looking from Amelia to Lottie, and the remainder of the women. “How long has this been going on around here?”

“It’s well-known he’s a thug; it’s been going on years.” Tabitha supplies. “It did stop, for a fair while, until recently. Now it’s back to before: a burning bus here, employees beaten bloody there. I heard they've even _shot_ horses.”

The women murmur to one another, but Jacob needs more. “Anyone aware why it suddenly started again?”

“I’m not certain _why_ , but I do know it’s mostly aimed at one other company.” Daisy offers, her arms now folded. “Attaway Transport. That’s always mentioned, in the articles.”

“Mm, well it’s a turf war then, innit?” Amelia sucks on her bottom lip, cheeks pillowed out. “Clear the streets for just the one company. Monopolise it, like.”

“Exactly. When my husband was alive, he had dealings with the owner. A woman! Apparently she’s very shrewd. But then she needs to be, with all these men looking to swindle her.”

Daisy’s last lingers on Jacob, glancing him up and down. Feeling skewered by her green eyes, he clears his throat, but Amelia leans closer before he can ask anything further.

“This husband one, or two?”

Daisy chuckles, looking almost pleased. “One. Two was _never_ my husband.”

“Anyone have an idea where she's located? The owner.” Jacob tries to drag the conversation back to something relevant, the settee three all shake their heads, nothing to add. 

Amelia leans in close, has her hand on the back of his chair now. She cups it round his ear while the others continue talking amongst themselves, Jacob tries not to shift away when he feels her hot breath on his skin. 

“ _She killed ‘em both, you know_.”

Eyes widening, Jacob watches her shift back with a sly nod, jerking her chin Daisy’s way, and _there’s_ a piece of luxe gossip he could have done without. 

“The owner,” Beatrice straightens up in her high-back chair, and Jacob marvels at how she can command the room with such a simple gesture, “is one Pearl Attaway. Inherited the business from her father, I believe. Quite the shining example of a businesswoman, from what I’ve read.”

Hm, the name rings familiar, but perhaps that’s from witnessing her buses driving around the city. Come to think of it, he’s seen more of that name than Millner’s, on this side of the tracks at least. 

At a guess, Jacob would say Millner’s not too pleased about that.

“I may need to have a chat with her.” Suddenly hopeful with a new goal in mind, Jacob turns his cheery smile on Beatrice; at once itching to begin. “Any particulars on Miss Attaway?” 

The madam looks at her girls, then shakes her head, slowly. “That’s all I know. We’ve rather more knowledge on bankers and clerks up here, ranking bureaucrats and the like. Businessmen. A few politicians.”

Jacob deflates, but perhaps all is not lost. It’s not like the Assassins don’t have other contacts he can hassle. Perhaps even Freddy could scrounge up something. There must be records, an address given, if this Miss Attaway has filed complaints or reports—

“And unless she’s the _queer_ sort,” Amelia adds, “High-class lady like that wouldn’t be caught dead inside a dolly-house.”

The other girls nod and agree, and so does Jacob, even with a pinch in his gut at the undertones given. He moves on. 

“Well, you’ve given me more than enough to go on. Thank you for everything, ladies.” He sends them each a kind smile, leaving Madame Beatrice with a courteous nod, to which she politely returns, rising from her desk to extend a hand.

“I look forward to speaking with your Rooks, and to an alliance which may benefit us all.” 

Jacob swiftly follows, rising from his seat to clasp her hand with a firm shake. “Shoot me a message, any time. Or collar a Rook off the road.” 

Beside him, Amelia’s hastening up from her seat in a flurry of silk and crinoline. “Walk you out, Jakey? Can’t have the girls downstairs think I’m losing my touch.”

Extending a polite nod to the others, Jacob heads for the door with her in his wake, teasing under his breath, "Do you always walk your punters out?"

Amelia grins, looping her arm in his as they cross over the threshold, shutting the door behind them. 

“Only when they look like _you_ , handsome.”

Jacob smirks, smoothing his hair back with a side-eyed look down at Amelia, catching an appreciative bird's-eye view of her amazing tits. 

"And how often is that?"

“Ugh, hardly _ever_ ,” she laments, steering him toward the stair and puffing out her cheeks in a dejected breath. “Nine out of ten, they’re going bald and take _ages_ to get it up.”

He barely stops a laugh from leaking, tugs out his hat, "With you? Looking like _that_? Doesn't sound very likely, or _fun_." He unfolds it to pop it atop his head with a little flurry and a grin, showing off. 

"Personally, _I_ don't have that problem."

“ _Oohoo_ , you flirt!” 

Earns himself a swat to the arm for his cheek, although Amelia tucks her head close to his as they descend the steps, tone coy. 

“Wasn’t just playin’ earlier, you know. If Miss B weren’t so set against it, I’d take you upstairs now for a bit of fun.”

As incredibly flattering as that may be, Jacob can't help but think of Teddy. Pursing his lips he hesitates; saying this now will out him, but he doesn’t fancy playing at chums with someone who's going to hate him for his tastes, so he might as well.

"If I hadn't a handsome man of my own back home, I might have taken you up on that." 

He wouldn't have, but there's nothing wrong with a little white lie, especially with the reaction it gains him: Amelia’s finely painted mouth falls open, disbelieving pout sliding headlong into a delighted grin. Smacks him in the arm again, just barely containing her glee along with her volume. 

“ _Two_ handsome men, and both off-market? No wonder there’s none left for me.” The way she says it makes him laugh out loud, properly this time. 

"Hope your fella knows he’s a jammy sod.”

Jacob calms his laughter, catching a few of the other girls’ looks now they’re almost to the ground floor, sighing wistfully. "I'm the jammy one: he's somethin' else."

Amelia twirls a finger in her curling locks, nudging him with a sly look. “You ought to bring him along, next time.” 

Jacob has an idea of what she’s getting at, smirking. “I'm not so sure he’d be into that.”

Just as they reach the bottom of the steps his companion sighs mournfully. “Not one for sharing, then? Can’t say as I blame him.”

The parlour seems even more bustling now: the same girl at the piano is plucking out another waltz, and some punters are sprawled on the sofa, but Amelia only tugs him through the crowd with a proud little smile, arm curled possessively in his.

She’s playing the part for them both, Jacob knows, and he’s grateful—although when she brings him to a stop just before Bouncer Bob, he’s not expecting the soft, sweetly chaste kiss she plants on his cheek, leaving him with one last heavy whiff of perfume. 

“Come back soon, yeah? And remind your fella he’s a lucky man.”

He blinks down at her, and that sultry smile she returns could charm the pants off anyone… 

Except Jacob.

"I most certainly will."

Amelia leaves him with a flurry of skirts and a swish of ringlets, strolling back to the fray as when he first arrived—Jacob feels his gaze lingering as he gets handed his weapons and gauntlet, enchanted by the ease in which she commands a crowd. After a sly glance back his way, Amelia departs for the stairs, and Jacob decides to play his own part: tips his hat in her direction and sends a wink, makes her roll those pretty eyes but grin nonetheless. 

Jacob chuckles to himself. 

"So, _Milton_ , any of the girls take a fancy to _you_?"

The man looks a tad surprised with the brash question and fact his name is known, straightens up and gains a level frown, candlelight bouncing off his bald head.

"No. I'm married."

"Huh." Jacob glances the bloke up and down as he fastens his gauntlet on tight; Milton's a huge beefy fellow, with rounded features and at least a head taller, thin lips, cabbage ears, and not a laughter line in sight. The exact opposite of _Jacob’s_ type, but he supposes people like what they like.

"Me too." Jacob adds, proudly.

Milton reacts with… nothing. 

But Jacob is positively aglow with his little test. 

Shoves his pistol in its holster and starts out the door, airing a cheery goodbye and noting the miserable weather seems to have cleared itself up. 

Now it's back to the train, again. Needs to move some pieces around, get the first few weeks of shifts at the brothel planned out and covered. 

After that he'll turn his attention to tracking down Miss Pearl Attaway. 

Probably lives somewhere highclass, where the pavements aren't cracked, the lamp posts are tipped with gold, and riff-raff like Jacob are few and far between. The Strand or Minster, in the shadow of Parliament most likely: supping from her gilded teacups as the help runs around behind the scenes; worried for their jobs and, in turn, their living.

Makes Jacob a little queasy, thinking about partnering with someone like that. Someone who inherited their wealth and he can guess is only set on gaining more.

Still, it's for the greater good and all that.

He'll have a pint beforehand, loosen himself up a bit ahead of meeting her. Be less prone to slips of the tongue that way. 

Sounds counterintuitive, but for Jacob, it's really not.

Speaking of the greater good, he'll need to give every single Rook a good talking-to around proper etiquette with their lovely new clients. Jacob’s not letting these women be treated differently or taken advantage of simply because of their reputation within wider society. And it will most _certainly_ not, under any circumstances, come from within his ranks.

He halts before crossing the main road, hearing little else than the slick and hustle of coach wheels on wet cobbles. It clearly rained whilst he was in the brothel. 

Blasted weather, needs to make up its mind. 

Ahead, a couple are braving the busy street and it's very daring of them at that. Appear to be fine though, looking out for each other, even as the disgruntled whips blare curses their merry way. They're both laughing and clutching the other's hand, helping their companion.

Jacob smiles to himself, finding his thoughts trailing back to Theo, picking up a lighter step as he begins to cross himself. Worries lingering on how difficult it must have been for his fella, on the streets: not even a warm place to rest between tricks, and certainly no protection from clients or otherwise. 

Jacob hadn't managed to get much else out of Ned last night regarding his and Teddy's first meeting other than what Theo himself had told him. Or if he did, Jacob can't remember it.

But now, that they've found one another, that Ted pulled himself up and made a good life, Jacob wants to further that. Wants to help him flourish, even if all that entails is keeping him warm at night, his tea tin full of biscuits, and a good fuck.

That slight of fancy just now, airing aloud that he's tied to Teddy. Gives Jacob a secretive smile and a funny jumble in his stomach.

With the way he constantly feels when he thinks of Theo, they might as well be married.

He'd say it again in a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My boy drinks his Respect Women Juice™️ and drinks it on the daily 💪 sex workers everywhere deserve love, support, and respect—even fictional ones! Please let us know if there’s anything we can do better  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **"Reason number one-hundred-and-fifty-one on Jacob’s shitlist of why today's pissing him off, and the day's not even on its feet yet."** : Ray Arnold mumbles an approximation of this line in Jurassic Park. It's my favourite movie, of course I used a quote
> 
>  **Knees-up** : British slang for a rowdy/lively party or celebration
> 
>  **"Looking rather suave..."** : Jacob's wearing the Suave Outfit in default colours, for all you Syndicate fashionistas 
> 
> **Dolly/dollies** : Victorian slang for a sex worker
> 
>  **Unfortunate women** : if you've played the Jack the Ripper DLC, you'll know all about this and Jacob's love for a play-on-words. It is yet another Victorian slang term for sex workers
> 
>  **Dover Cliffs** : the white cliffs of Dover are a British landmark located, you guessed it, in Dover. The cliffs gain their brilliant white appearance due to being made from chalk, which was deposited some 70 million years ago during the Cretaceous period, when Great Britain and the majority of Europe was submerged under the Tethys Ocean
> 
>  **The Blue Danube Waltz** : written by Austrian composer Johann Strauss II in 1866 (first played in 1867). Chances are you may not be familiar with the title, but trust me, you will have heard this song 
> 
> **A tick** : a second or a short period of time; a tick of the clock
> 
>  **Heavily-flounced** : 'flounce' was slang for a Victorian equivalent of eyeliner
> 
>  **Porcelain pecker** : porcelain dildos were indeed a thing! Victorian girls make do, etc. 
> 
> **Six in Lord's** : 'Lord's' is referring to the Lord's Cricket ground located in St. John's Wood, London, known as the 'home of cricket'
> 
>  **Orange-blossom** : citrus scents were popular amongst Victorian ladies
> 
>  **Ladybirds** : another Victorian slang term for a prostitute
> 
>  **Coffee house** : Victorian slang for a brothel
> 
>  **West Green** : a village located in the north of Crawley
> 
>  **The Diseases Act** : the Contagious Diseases Act of 1964. This despicable act was first introduced under the guise of curbing the spread of venereal diseases in the armed forces. It later developed into a way to control and subjugate the lower and working class women of the time, humiliate them, and rob them of any decency or agency. The act allowed police officers to arrest women suspected of being prostitutes in certain ports and army towns. These women were then subjected to compulsory checks for venereal disease, whether they liked it or not. The act stated that women found to be infected could be interned in a 'lock hospital' for up to three months, which was gradually extended up to a period of one year by the 1969 reforms. The prostitutes' clientele were _never_ made to undergo any such checks. This double standard and violation of human rights caused outrage amongst the public, and a massive campaign coming from multiple sources came together to tackle them. I want to include a quote from one of Josephine Butler's public letters during her campaign to repeal the acts. Butler was a prominent English suffragette and one of the many fantastic ladies instrumental to the fight to repeal these acts, and many things after. This quote was by a sex worker of the time; 
> 
> _"It is men, only men, from the first to the last that we have to do with! To please a man I did wrong at first, then I was flung about from man to man. Men police lay hands on us. By men we are examined, handled, doctored. In the hospital it is a man again who makes prayer and reads the Bible for us. We are had up before magistrates who are men, and we never get out of the hands of men till we die!"_
> 
> It took 15 years of rigorous campaigning from 1870 onwards, two National associations created, 17,365 petitions with 2,606,429 signatures presented to the House of Commons (the primary chamber of the UK Government) and over 900 meetings, but, in 1886, the acts were finally repealed
> 
>  **Piggy-in-the-middle** : British version of Monkey-in-the-middle
> 
>  **Crinoline** : was a popular women's fashion item and certified death-trap. It was a stiffened petticoat designed to support and form a woman's dress into a large bell shape (the associated fabric could also be referred to as 'crinoline', not just the frame). So, imagine wearing a multi-layered floor-length dress, which is already hazardous and annoying, now add under that a steel cage designed to make you at least three times as wide as you already are. Oh, and make the fabric of the dress _incredibly_ flammable. Florence Nightingale herself estimated that in 1863 alone, 630 women died from their clothes catching fire whilst wearing crinoline


	21. with her sweetened breath and her tongue so mean

Standing outside Pearl Attaway's opulent abode in mid-Minster at half-five in the afternoon, Jacob Frye is not the most inconspicuous presence around. 

Turns out, he isn't the only one to think so.

"Oi! What're you starin' at!"

Too late Jacob quickly jerks his head, cursing his luck that they’ve caught him looking. 

He can hear the pair in Blighter red muttering between themselves, soles of their grimy shoes sloshing to a halt outside the nearest puddle.

Damn.

The rain’s come and gone since Jacob hopped the train at Charing Cross, made his way back through Westminster with slick pavement beneath his feet. Late sun’s drenching the streets as surely as the downpour earlier, he can’t complain. Blame the Queen’s own rarified air, or just a dearth of nearby factories, but the breeze is less than foul, up here.

Ran into little Clara O’Dea on the train, at that—corralled her picking up medicine from Greenie for her tiddlers. Jacob thought he’d better ask her before traipsing all the way to the Met to pester Freddy for the scoop. Turns out Clara _had_ heard of a one Miss Pearl Attaway, for reasons unforeseen:

Apparently Attaway Transport had at one time employed child labour, in the stables and garages alike—seems that when Miss Attaway took over the family business, she put a swift end to that. 

Jacob’s glad— _relieved_ —to hear it, knows he’ll sleep easier dealing with a woman of basic principle, at least.

Though that thought alone will never rid the sour taste from his mouth as he stands outside her towering residence, scrubbed pristine white and pillared within an inch of its life. The view overlooks the south-east corner of St. James' Park: if he crossed the road and peered west, he'd be able to see Buckingham Palace, for God's sake. 

Though Attaway’s palatial monstrosity is the least of his current worries, when one of the Blighter sods goes raising his nasally voice: makes Jacob tense in the cool air, fingers tightening atop the handle of his cane, its hidden sword. _Bollocks_. He traces the raven-skull ornament set into the polished steel, should he need it.

"Look what we have here, Bill." 

"What's that, Baz?"

"A dead man walking." 

Jacob doesn't turn to look at them, keeps his eyes ahead, not wanting to make a scene… for a change. "I'm just minding my business, boys. I suggest you do the same." 

"Is that a _threat_?"

He does turn then, with a bemused brow, slowly looking between the pair of gormless juggins, barely a brain-stem strung between the two of them. "Wasn't that obvious?"

They stare stupidly at him, then each other: the younger-looking one suddenly glares Jacob’s way, thick finger stabbing dangerously towards his chest.

"Are you try'na trick us—he thinks we're _thick_ , Bill."

"I never said anything of the sort, chaps." Jacob shifts from his casual lean against the wrought-iron fence, holding up his spare hand, palm open—showing he's very _clearly_ not a threat. 

This is _tedious_. If this was any other time, he'd have already cut their throats and thrown them in the hedge for the foxes to scavenge come nightfall, but since it's _not_ … 

Best try another angle.

"However, Bill's _silence_ speaks volumes."

Playing them against each other might be an entertaining game. A very _easily_ -mastered, entertaining game.

The bloke called Baz looks hurt, _bless_ , turns a gloomy snort his mate's way. " _Bill_. Why're you doin' this infronta 'im?"

Bill puts on an affront. "I'm doing _nothing_. Why're you actin' like a sullen char?" 

Jacob turns his head to yawn, scratching his scruff and moving in for the kill.

So to speak.

"Looks to me lads like you two need a pint. Bury the hatchet, y'know what I mean?" Jacob jerks a thumb over their shoulders. "King's Arms, just round there. Heard they got new draughts in only yesterday."

"Hm, could do with a sup. Then you can apologise, Bill. Get me a round of jars."

"You do realise that's only _one_ pint for you."

"There you go _again_ , makin' me _feel daft._ "

Jacob huffs with relief when they take the bait, making for the pub and forgetting him entirely, _good_ ; still rattling off at each other like a pair of pissy fishwives.

He chuckles under his breath, readjusting his lean and checking the time—oh, nevermind. 

Back to lazing, he slouches against a thick white pillar that's attached to the iron fence running round the house.

Christ, the waiting is always the worst: Jacob groans under his breath, reaching into the pouch on the back of his belt to pull out a small tin, flicking it open.

Looks like he’ll be later than anticipated on his return to Teddy’s, what with how long it's taking Miss Attaway to make her appearance. _Shame_. 

Although climbing through his gable windows in the dead of night does sound _tempting_ , surprising his fella in bed… Jacob ponders all the differing ways it could be done as he scoops his finger in the dinky tin, spreads a light layer of beeswax across his lips. 

Recalls Theo’s fingers doing much the same yesterday morn, tracing Jacob’s lips while he had the man's twitching cock in his mouth.

Gives him a wicked smirk, that memory.

Another, oh, he doesn’t know, half an hour? passes, before the sound of carriage wheels and horseshoes drift along the quiet street, come clip-clopping up the slight hill towards the house. 

A dressy little thing it is, too: nothing over-the-top, but just enough to tell you the occupant is not without means. 

Because if you have the money, why not rub everyone's nose in it, eh? 

Jacob keeps his lean informal, cane by his side, doesn't move an inch—only holds fast as the carriage draws to a halt just before him, and its driver clambers down to open the door. 

He tilts his head slightly, to better see the owner depart her ride. 

Her gown is a rich, deep purple, likely silk: lavish in execution, she wouldn't look out of place in a room full of suits. Ash-brown hair, twisted up in a decadent bundle of coils and plaits still perfectly-set, even at day’s end: not so much as a curl out of place.

Puts himq in mind of Evie's take-no-shit attitude.

Watching the coachman guide her down the carriage steps, Jacob clocks the precise moment she realises he’s there: her sharp, handsome face settling upon impassive, just as he stands straight and offers her a discreet smile.

“Oh, _splendid_ ,” the apparent Miss Attaway sighs, in a tone much-beleaguered and quite frankly, _bored_. “You’re here to murder me.”

Jacob gawps, “I- _what_?” 

He's still trying to wrap his head around the accusation when the woman reaches carefully into her purse, plucking out a gold sovereign and holding it towards him.

“Is this enough? And please tell your _Mister_ Millner that molesting me at my private home has gone quite far enough. I shall have the police upon him before dawn.”

The mere thought that Jacob would dally here—in front of her house during daylight if he were planning on her murder, in view of God and everyone—is laughable.

And doubly so, that she thinks Jacob can be _bought_. 

Ha!

He crosses the distance between them and lowers her hand, keeping his voice down, and side-eyeing her terrified whip stood not three feet away. “I’m not here to kill you.” 

The surprise on her face is almost charming, a slow tilt of her head shows she’s trying to figure him out. 

“Then what’s your game?” 

He’ll put it in terms she can easily appreciate.

“Mister Millner and Mister Starrick have blocked your ambitions long enough. I have a business proposition for you.”

Those fine brows raise even further, lips curling with intrigue as she seems to appraise the situation—and what seems to Jacob, nearly a smile. 

“ _Wonderful_. And what a pleasant surprise. Come with me, we have much to discuss, _Mister…_?”

“Jacob Frye,” he says, knowing he shouldn’t and he may well be wrong, but she hardly seems the type to balk at his breach of etiquette if she's come this far—he offers his left hand to shake, “at your service.”

Pearl does smile then, a neat flash of perfect white teeth as she takes his hand in a firm grip. 

“Truer words were never spoken.”

And then she’s dropping his fingers and sidling past, fine skirts brushing his ankles while she inquires over one shoulder. 

“Now tell me, Mister Frye. Would you care to stay for tea?”

* * *

It’s hardly a handful of minutes later that Jacob finds himself in a well-appointed parlour, decked out in comely shades of cream and lilac: modern and bright in the light of the dying day, it’s certainly wealth on display, but more tasteful than he could have anticipated. 

Still pretentious as all hell, but he's trying to see past that. Or at the very least ignore it. For the sake of building bridges.

Pearl Attaway herself is waving him to a seat as she settles in an armchair on the opposite side of the room, and a maid bustles in with a full and clinking tea service.

“Thank you, Mary. You may leave the tray.”

Slipping off his hat, Jacob tucks it inside his coat and takes a seat on the motioned settee. 

Reminds him of the one in Madame Beatrice's suite this morning, though smaller. 

Probably best not to mention _that_ little tidbit. 

He feels far too big for it anyway, like he's going to break the sodding thing by simply sitting on it; snap its ornately carved legs and rumple the velvet upholstery. At least his coat's clean, shouldn’t leave a heavy mark. 

Jacob tries his best to look as comfortable, as _casual_ , as he damn well can. 

Likely not his most convincing role.

In contrast, Pearl is seated opposite, a regal queen of her immodest castle. He can feel her quiet regard upon him as she reaches for the teapot, still sizing him up. 

“You must forgive me my earlier assumption, Mister Frye,” she says, all charm and poise and steaming water. “With all that’s happened recently, you’ll understand my being on-guard.”

Back on familiar footing, Jacob manages a friendly grin, playing cool. "I doubt I shall ever recover from such a slight."

Pearl laughs then, a pretty, tinkling sound—with her fair face creasing up in mirth, she appears at once younger, more carefree; as if years of stress have melted away by a single peal. Jacob's gratified to see the difference, suddenly far more at ease himself.

“Just so. Sugar, Mister Frye?”

“Jacob, please. And two, please.”

He feels like a bit of an oddity, stuffed on this too-small settee, playing at etiquette and polite small-talk. 

Not his idea of fun _at all_. 

Though Pearl is smiling to herself as she delicately drops two neat cubes in his cup, silver filigree sugar tongs flashing in the evening sun like a blade. 

“So,” she begins, passing him a fine china cup and saucer, bone-white with golden trim, and painted sprays of exquisitely-rendered violets. Feels downright _dainty_ in his clumsy paws, like the wrong move could crack its handle clean off. 

“ _Jacob_. You mentioned you had a business proposition for me.”

His cup rattles in its saucer as Jacob sets it timidly on the edge of the table between them, at once relieved to be rid of the prissy thing, no longer making a porcelain racket.

"One that will benefit us both greatly." 

He may as well get straight to the point; by now Miss Attaway looks terribly interested in what he has to say, and Jacob throws himself into it headlong.

" _My_ goal is to take down Crawford Starrick. Crippling Millner will do that, strangle his employer's hold on the London transportation sector, but partnering with _you_ should make it a whole lot easier, and make sure London doesn't suffer in the crossfire." 

Pearl tilts her head, seemingly considering as she holds her own cup aloft. 

“My, my,” she says, lips pursed. “Crawford Starrick? You _are_ ambitious.”

"No one is untouchable." Jacob can see she’s intrigued, admiration plain across her well-favoured face: still listening, still _curious_. He offers a compliment, in the form of a nod in her direction. "Especially with the right connections."

Pearl takes a thoughtful sip, that canny smile beginning to show once more. “No, I should think not.” Setting down her cup, she reaches for the plate of iced buns and teacakes, selecting a butter-rich shortbread with an appraising eye.

“Malcolm Millner,” she begins, “is positively _unhinged_. The man is notorious in the omnibus business for taking out competition, by _any means necessary_ —every other company has gone under in the last three years, in no small part due to his _tactics_."

Jacob’s paying attention but takes a bun for himself. The morsel is so small it's only a toothful, but still, it's delicious. "I heard you had a driver beaten and a bus burnt only last week? South of Smithfield."

Pearl flashes with sudden, righteous anger. 

“Yes! Vandalism, threats, arson—there are no depths to Millner’s greed, his utter _disregard_ for life and livelihood. My bus drivers, beaten within an inch of their lives. Brave men too afraid to go back on the roads!”

Sounds exactly like what the ladies at Madame Beatrice’s mentioned earlier. "And he's doing this purely to get you to close shop?"

Pearl nods slowly, composed once more, leaving the barely-nibbled shortbread to her plate. 

"Indeed. The attacks seemed to halt, for a time, once his company was acquired—but they’ve begun again, far worse than before. No longer reduced to property damage. Attempts on my life, on my driver. You’ll forgive me for thinking you were one of those thugs in Millner’s employ—he has sent _so many_ , lately.”

At the last, Pearl’s stately shoulders droop, hands folded almost meekly in her lap. Gaze downcast, as if the earlier display of anger has exhausted her—leaving only a sad, tired woman, resigned to the threat of harassment and loss. 

Jacob feels a pang of pity, for behind this lavish exterior she's still _someone_ , someone who deserves to live her life unmolested. Yet another way Starrick is squeezing the length and breadth of this city into ruin.

"Then we should retaliate."

He feels Pearl’s changeable gaze upon him, feels the blood rise under his collar at the prospect of getting his hands dirty. Of ripping away another chunk from Starrick’s bloated empire, distributing it back to the people. 

"Give him a taste of his own medicine. _The whole damn bottle_."

Pinning him with a delighted, emboldened stare in which Jacob feels his own intensity mirrored, Pearl smiles again, sharp and dangerous. “Oh, _Jacob_. You’re hired.”

He smirks, amused at the thought of her _hiring_ him, but he has the hunch she's just as tickled. 

"I'll need help from my gang, but we can locate his storage yards, _persuade_ his employees not to show up to work, block routes, supply lines… the whole bailiwick."

“Such _entrepreneurial_ instinct. And a gangman, no less." Pearl appears more than pleased, _impressed_ even, by his suggestions; Jacob quietly basks in the praise. 

She takes up her tea once more, sits back in her plush armchair, seemingly more at ease now that finality is out of the way. "Tell me, have you always lived in London?”

A little surprised with the inquiry, Jacob raises his brows, reaches for his cup and saucer with a polite smile, "No, I've been here a couple of months. If that. Came north, from Crawley."

“Ah,” Pearl lifts her cup to her lips, but not before raising a slender brow. “Well. Once this Millner business is sorted, you’ll have to let me show you my city sometime, by carriage. Arthur is a _splendid_ driver.”

Sounds, _quaint_. Jacob would be lying if he wasn’t a trifle bemused with the offer, but Pearl sounds genuine, not a hint of mockery beneath the proposal. And so he humours her with a nod, slurping warily at his tea. 

"Saved the best for yourself?"

This silly little cup feels too delicate for his lips, Jacob bets he could bite through it if he wanted to.

“Naturally.” 

Dark, heavy flounce painted around her eyes accentuates her fine features, and she's training them all Jacob’s way. 

Clearing his throat, Jacob’s reaching for a couple of perfectly-squared sandwiches: crusts off, no fillings on show, and each one cut no bigger than a matchbox. 

How do people keep themselves going on only this stuff?

"Do you have any other enterprises? Anything Millner could target. And in turn, any of his I should know?"

Pearl watches closely as he slowly stacks his plate high with tiny foodstuffs, but she looks more amused than anything; sipping delicately at her tea.

“An excellent question. Attaway Transport specialises in omnibuses, as you well know, but we let carriages as well: hansoms, hackneys, cargo wagons. We haven’t had near as much trouble with those—Millner has only buses, you see.”

She returns her cup to its saucer, rosy lips curled. 

“There _is_ a depot, across the Thames. Southwark, off Borough High Street I believe—Millner keeps half of his buses there in a storage yard. If perhaps misfortune were to befall that storehouse…”

"It would be a terrible shame." Jacob smirks before he stuffs in a sandwich. Or two. 

He also happens to know that street well; Tabbard Street stems from it, and a certain Irish lad's digs to boot. 

“ _Mm_. I would be all too happy to see him removed from the transport business _entirely_.”

Tasting a candied fruit and rather liking it, Jacob takes a couple more. He’s no idea what the fruit is, couldn’t name it if he tried—but the toffee is salted, rich and tasty.

"So far we've mostly spoken of attacks upon your property, but you also mentioned threats upon your life. How are you handling those?"

For the first time, Pearl looks at a bit of a loss. “I… well, Arthur drives armed, now. I take pains to be home before dark, and I’ve traded my usual carriage for the one you saw today: smaller, more discreet.”

That was her _discreet_ carriage? Dear God. 

With that in mind, Jacob’s honestly surprised there hasn't been more money thrown at the issue. Tries again, gently.

"I was thinking more along the lines of, extra security."

“Oh. No, I haven’t any. Until today, no one’s bothered to visit my _home_.” The rather pointed look she leaves him with would curdle some mens' innards. Not Jacob's. 

"That's my entrepreneurial spirit, you'll have to forgive it." Grin fading, Jacob slips into something more serious, earnest now, for all his initial grudging. "But I really think you should have something put in place."

“We haven’t hired anyone, yet. I’d hardly know where to begin.”

The lost look on her face gives him pause. He wouldn't feel comfortable offering his Rooks to babysit; for one, the woman can well afford to employ a private army if she so desires. And for two, he would not send a battalion, let alone a _small group_ of them to wait around Westminster, guarding this wealthy woman’s riches: their lives are worth far more than that. And the Blighter presence is still too great here. 

"I'm certain you have connections, someone familiar with the ins and outs."

Pearl steeples her fingers, considering. “A bodyguard, you mean.”

"As this has reached a point where you thought _I_ was sent by Millner to kill you; I would." She'll need someone to overpower, foil however many thugs Millner’s willing to throw her way, and whatever brickshithouse she hires should do the trick.

“Alright.”

Jacob sees her nod and gives a moment to let the suggestion sink in, eating the last of the pittance from his plate, and licking his lips with a sly smirk. "I'd offer myself, but you couldn't afford me."

She seems to take a moment, matching his not-so-subtle tease and folding hands in her lap, demure. Jacob knows better. 

“I like a man who knows his worth.”

He glances away after she trails her eyes downwards, feeling a little bit stuck out. Jacob takes a long sip of tea before clearing his throat. "And I don't doubt you know your own. So you'll take my suggestions to heart and protect yourself? I'd hate to miss a follow-up."

“Certainly.” 

When Pearl finds his gaze again, her smile is light, but full of cunning. “Would you care to meet me at Lambeth Bridge, late tomorrow evening? There we can take a chance to view Millner’s storeyard for ourselves.”

Politely inclining his head, Jacob sets down his tea, finding himself drawn to the wickedness simmering in Pearl's gaze. "I'll make sure to bring backup. In case anything turns nasty."

Her delicate features seem almost girlish, in the wake of a widening grin. “What a wonderful idea, Jacob. You think of _everything_.”

Emboldened by the praise and the lightness in Pearl's voice, Jacob rises from his seat, plucking the last of the candied fruits and tossing it past his lips. 

"I look forward to a prosperous partnership." 

He waits for her to stand, before offering his hand to shake. Again. Seeing if he can get away with it for a second time. 

Pearl arches one shapely brow at his outstretched palm, silent as she rakes a slow, appraising _look_ across the whole of him—makes Jacob’s toes twitch in his boots, suddenly and inexplicably wondering if he ought to have shaved, or tarted himself up a bit more.

“Call it intuition,” she breathes, eyes gleaming, “but I have the distinct feeling that London will never be the same.”

Jacob likes the sound of that.

"That's the idea."

Pearl joins him with a gentle smirk, that keen gaze bright when she grips his hand firmly, delicate fingers soft against his rough skin. 

“Until tomorrow, Mister Frye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forsee the beginning of a ~~beautiful~~ ~~uncomplicated~~ ~~totally trustworthy~~ friendship...  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Tiddlers** : British slang for a small fish, like a minnow or stickleback. Jacob’s using it to refer to Clara's urchins 
> 
> **"Outside her towering residence"** : Pearl's place is really on the map, right here [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/llsmqqz7qrakpxz/Pearl%27s_House_Outside.png?dl=0) and here [[x]](https://www.dropbox.com/s/7gkdg8raubbalss/Pearl%27s_House_Map.png?dl=0)
> 
>  **Juggins** : A silly person, a fool, someone easily taken in
> 
>  **Char** : Victorian slang for a housewife


	22. it's not tonight, where i'm set alight

Loitering, Jacob thinks idly, from his shadowed perch at the foot of Lambeth Bridge, is truly an overlooked art.

The skill it takes—assuming a certain _joy de veve_ , a sense of belonging where one has no business being—not to mention a knack for easy charm, which he has in _spades_.

There’s a reason Evie’s never managed it, for all her innate talent.

Bless.

By now the last of the daylight’s long gone, faded from a soft pink dusk to the cool, heavy cover of night—and casual airs aside, Jacob finds himself itching for action.

Hoping the night goes well.

Though with Millner’s depot being right across the street from Teddy's flat, he's sure the night will _end_ very well.

A hackney comes trundling along out the gloom some thirty foot away, wheels rattling over damp and dreary cobbles.

Not for him.

And this pea soup of a fog hanging round has thrown a spanner in the works alright; visibility is down more than he'd like. But, Jacob supposes, it might _help_ with infiltration, should the night come to that. Might prove a blessing in disguise.

He's _itching_ to get on with it though, cut the full bullshit _softly-softly_ approach Evie always suggests and get his boys into that bus yard: rough up some Blighters, score a blow.

They’ll be the perfect distraction while Jacob sneaks in, brains _and_ brawn. She’ll see.

Assuming his ride ever shows.

It’s half an hour late.

Jacob will readily admit _he_ keeps a rather lax schedule, but he didn’t expect the same of a proper _lady_.

Two minutes pass.

Nothing.

Kicking a pebble into the street, Jacob sighs, bored.

Three more minutes.

She had better not forgotten their little rendezvous, he thinks, frowning into the sky. Or _worse_ , perhaps she remembers but is taking the piss, having a jolly at his expense. Last thing he wants is to wait here all night, with nothing to show for it.

Another minute.

Damn it all.

He’s nearly given it all up as a fruitless endeavour when those niggling doubts are laid to rest with the sound of hooves on cobbles: another cart approaching, and one he knows already.

As it materialises from out the London gloom, Jacob smirks, relieved.

Pearl Attaway's carriage is just as he remembers it from yesterday, more understated than some but still lavish, poncy as hell for a start.

It draws to a stop right in front of him, the warm pool of lantern-light aligning perfectly with his feet.

Old Jeeves is settling aside his reins, clearly preparing to climb down and fetch him the door, as if Jacob can’t get it himself—

 _No bloody thanks, mate_.

He rolls his eyes and saves the bloke a wasted trip to the pavement, grabbing for the handle himself—though the door is lighter than he’s expecting, nearly rags the thing off its hinges with one sharp pull.

Tries not to blush when he meets Pearl’s shrewd gaze, ducking inside and rearranging his face to something far more self-assured, sinking into the seat across from the lady.

He's all charming smiles and a casual lean against the plush upholstery, the picture of nonchalance.

"Miss Attaway. For a moment there, I thought our meeting had slipped your mind."

He hopes she takes the _hint_ with his pointed tone.

“On the contrary,” Pearl demurs, her own smile indulgent, “You are not a forgettable man, Mister Frye.”

As if to emphasise her point, Jeeves snaps the reins, starts the carriage swaying beneath them once more.

After a quick glance out the window, Jacob lets out a clandestine sigh, "Flattery will get you everywhere." Fitting into his role for the night _quite_ nicely.

“Oh, I _do_ hope so.”

Pleasantries seemingly dealt with, Pearl settles back with a regal tilt of her chin, gloved hands neatly folded in her lap. “Millner’s storeyard. Have you seen it?”

You could say that: Teddy’s gable windows have a great view.

"I'm familiar with the location."

“Excellent.” Pearl’s gaze is striking, Jacob struggles to look away. “So, what’s our plan? You mentioned your gang, and I presume you’re more than capable yourself— _thrill_ me.”

Jacob accepts the challenge, squaring his shoulders, though in the cramped cabin it's a little difficult to pull off well. "I've sent some of my boys ahead of us, they should be there waiting when we arrive."

Clearly expecting impressive, Pearl looks… nonplussed, so Jacob pushes on.

"I'll be taking out some—if not _all_ —of his buses in the place. That way, attacking Attaway Transport will be the _least_ of his worries."

The direction seems to delight his coachmate, if the way her perfectly-perched brows inch further up her forehead, and her dainty fingers clasp each other that _bit_ tighter.

He seals the deal.

"Millner needs to learn some manners: that if he hits _you_ , we'll hit him back _tenfold_."

Pearl leans forward, poised at the edge of her seat with a smile like a snarl—puts Jacob in mind of a cat with sharp claws, only playing tame as long as it suits her. Makes him briefly grateful to land firmly on her _good_ side.

“Jacob, _darling_ ,” she fairly purrs, “I knew I could count on you.”

Jacob smiles right back, broad and delighted.

Attaway sounds genuine, but most likely had her doubts. Still, it doesn't hurt to witness the satisfaction on her face, the praise for a job well done that he hasn't even _done_ yet.

Jacob sits back in his seat, at ease once more.

"And what is it that you'll be doing, while I engage in pleasantries with Millner’s lads?"

Pearl tips a cautious glance through the curtains, no doubt eyeing the darkened streets—they’re not being followed, if that’s what she’s worried about. Jacob’s been more than thorough.

“I rather thought,” Miss Attaway begins, smoothing the front of her gown, “my supervising from a distance may be best. I’d rather retain a semblance of deniability, you understand.”

He guessed as much.

"Of course."

All that politics bullshit.

Jacob motions a lazy hand her way, leather brace on show as he grins, appreciative and unable to stop himself.

"And that's _hardly_ your sparring frock."

“How kind of you to notice.”

He laughs, enjoying her willingness to play along. Takes another absent glance out the window, as the rain-slicked brick and cracked window panes of Lambeth pass them by in the gloom.

"You know, this will either cow him, or incite a full-blown war. With Millner."

Jacob's dropped his mirth by the last, sincere in his concern. "You certain you're ready for the backlash?"

“Mm.” When she raises her gaze from where it’s been lingering on the kukri at his thigh, Pearl’s regard is thoughtful. “Did you know,” she begins, with the ghost of a smile, “that my father brought me into the business at the age of six?”

Jacob shakes his head slightly, unsure of where she’s leading with this.

“My mother had fallen ill, and she would bear no more children—Father knew a son was out of the question, and so he turned to me.”

Pearl looks almost fond at the memory. “I was raised in boardroom meetings, taught to negotiate and balance accounts by the time I was twelve. Handle _sensitive_ investors—men who couldn’t bear sharing meetings with a mere girl. Now, _imagine_ their surprise when my father retired, and named me as his heir.”

He can try, but Jacob doubts his imagining could even come close.

“Of course, they always expected I’d make a good marriage: that the business would pass to my husband, and perhaps if he were generous, the company might keep the Attaway name.”

Jacob silently wonders if she means those foolish investors, or her family.

“I have no husband,” Pearl smiles, “and Attaway Transport is mine. Any backlash from Millner is not only _expected_ —it’s welcomed.”

He turns up a smirk, appreciative of her honesty, the way she keeps exceeding all his hasty expectations.

“This drivel has followed me all my life: on the basis of my sex, for refusing to marry and give up my assets, for being a businesswoman in a man’s world. And even as I watched my buses burn, felt my own life threatened, do you know what I realised?”

He knows she’s about to tell him, holding fast to her fierce gaze.

“Malcolm Millner cannot even _conceive_ of backlash as I know it.”

Hm.

Well.

Right.

Jacob supposes that answers his question.

Pearl’s intensity is heartening: assures Jacob that she’s in this for real reasons, that he and his Rooks aren’t just tools for a wealthy woman’s flight of fancy.

So he inclines his head, pushes back the brim of his hat with a cheeky thumb.

“Well, I look forward to it, then."

“As do I.”

Jacob almost chuckles at her quick wit, how she barely gives him time to breathe between his answer, and hers.

Deciding to not be cowed himself, meet that tenacity with some of his own, Jacob studies her for a lengthy moment: tilts his head, looking Pearl right in the eye before puffing out his cheeks, mind made up.

"You're not as stuck-up as I expected."

She looks startled, but pleasantly so; Jacob relaxes in his seat with a boyish grin.

"S'nice."

To his own surprise, Pearl’s pretty mouth falls open in sudden, delighted laughter.

“Do you know,” she beams, rosy-cheeked even in the dim lantern-light, “I think that’s the _nicest_ thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Blimey. Jacob scratches his chin, and offers her a candid thought.

"Not sure then if I should feel joyed for me, or sorry for you."

Pearl scoffs, dismissive. "I don't need your _pity_ , Jacob.” As if the mere idea is offensive. “Besides. You have so much more to offer me."

He cocks a brow at the last, for Pearl looks as if she's privy to something he's not—but then their carriage is pulling to a gentle halt, and she clears her throat instead.

“Ah. It seems we’ve arrived.”

Indeed it does.

Jacob takes that as his cue, exits the carriage with a tip of his hat.

"Miss Attaway."

The pavement is puddled, cobblestones wet beneath his boots, but there’s no more thick fog here.

Jacob watches the carriage pull away. Jeeves idles down a side street a short distance ahead, leaving only the expansive main road between Jacob and Millner’s walled-off storeyard.

He breathes out in the cool night air, not quite cold enough to see swirls of his own breath curl before him.

It’s quiet.

That dead-of-night, no wind, no weather kind of quiet.

Only the trickle of fallen rain from rooftops, the ambling of far-off carriages, and snorts from their chargers. The odd heavy word floating over the roadway, no doubt from a Blighter’s big gob.

The latter will be put to a stop any moment now.

He told his lads to wait inside the empty market not a stone's throw away, hidden and hushed. Can sense them there now if he tries, joshing and sharing a smoke in the shadows. But it’s past his lads, up the road alongside Millner’s yard where Jacob’s focus drifts, to the rooflines just opposite. _Ted’s_.

He can just about see the gable windows from here, smiles easy at the warm light emanating from behind those two-a-penny curtains. His fella must be getting ready for bed: stoking the parlour stove, hanging up his clothes, washing his face. Or, just maybe, Theo’s waiting up for him especially.

God, Jacob’s a lucky bastard.

The thought softens him: fades the determined frown from his face, loosens his fists. Sabotage and destruction temporarily forgotten in the wake of imagining Theo, pottering about his room, anticipating Jacob’s arrival through those very windows—

“ _Psst_! _Boss_!”

Damn it all.

“ _Over ‘ere_!”

He's quickly thinking up some excuse for his lapse in action as he turns and heads towards the noise, but then realises he doesn’t have to answer to his Rooks, _he’s_ in charge.

Who does he think they are, _Evie_?

Ducking behind the market gate, a small group clad in green appear, all looking ready and raring to go.

Jacob rubs his hands together, fingertips chilled with the night air biting at them.

“‘ello lads, everyone here?”

“Uh,” pipes up a voice from the back, as the others shift apart so Jacob can see the lad’s young face. “Roy ‘ad to drop out, sir. Sed ‘is missus wud ‘ave ‘is bollocks as earrin’s if ‘e stayed out late, agen.”

A chuckle ripples through the ranks, and Jacob smirks. “That’s more information than I needed, but ta, Will.”

The bloke nods and Jacob shoves his smile away; back to business.

“You lot will take on the Blighters near the entrance, while I head ‘round the back. You’ll distract them, _then_ , you work your way into the yard and meet me in the middle. Got it?”

A murmur of _ayes_ and hasty nods, and Jacob juts his chin. “Wait for my signal before you do anything.”

He shows off the gesture now, so no confusion can be had in the moment; right hand raised, two fingers in the air, he motions forward.

Not that he has any more than two, but still.

Another chorus of nods, and then they’re off out the gates. Jacob watches them go for a careful moment, before heading in the opposite direction: walking at an easy pace so as not to rouse suspicion, should anyone be watching. Makes his way around to the right side of the yard, while the rest of his lads veer left.

A few good blokes there—plus Reshma, who goes nowhere without her mate Tommy. She’s a champion at cracking skulls with the new dusters they've been supplied, and Jacob’s got a soft spot for her the size of Oxfordshire. Stuffs a searching hand in his own pocket, making sure his knuckles are ready for action, should the night have a brawl in store.

Hopping from the cobbled road onto the cracked slabs by the yard, Jacob tucks his hat away and brings up his hood, slipping into the shadows along the outer wall.

He always loves this bit.

Glancing down the path, he makes a note of his Rooks’ static position; just a few yards away from the entrance, ready and waiting for his signal.

The lane is all but dead, not another soul wandering along the wet pavement, which suits Jacob just dandy. Makes it a piece of piss to vault over the wall and brace for cover behind one of Millner’s neglected buses, with nary a Blighter close enough to see.

Sneaking a peek below the undercarriage, Jacob spies three pairs of legs stood around a burning barrel, no doubt trying to keep themselves warm in the cool night air.

It's also a stroke of good luck; their eyes will be blind in the dark from staring into the flames, gives an extra advantage to his assault.

With a gander around the front of the carriage, he sees only two men guarding the gate, _lovely._ Means his boys will have no issue getting in.

Now, for a better vantage point.

There’s some kind of storage shed to the direct right of him, past the bus he’s using as cover. Jacob flicks a keen eye over the strategically-placed cart just angled up its side, creating a steep but traversable ramp heavenwards.

Ledges and poles lead the way to the roof, brackets stuck out along the roofs’ edge as a final leg up to the top.

Might be helpful.

“Seems easy enough,” he mutters, and promptly brains himself on the corner of the bus when he leaps up from a crouch.

 _Ow_.

Stumbling back, he swears through his teeth and claps a hand to his throbbing temple, glaring a hole through the nearest wall.

“ _Now why’d you have to go and say that, Jacob_.”

Getting on with it anyway, Jacob grinds his heel in the soggy dirt beneath his boots, bends his knees, and prepares himself for a proper run-up.

Sucks in his breath, and it’s all but a simple _one-two-three_ up the ramp, pushing high off the summit for the closest ledge and landing light on the balls of his feet.

Trouble is, he can’t exactly stop: his momentum carries him forward, realising too late that the next foothold is far higher than he guessed, that he hasn’t a bat’s chance in hell of clearing the ledge—

“ _Shit—_ ”

Jacob barely manages to grab hold of the nearest edge, recklessly swinging his weight forward and biting back a shout—seems throwing out his injured hand to bear the weight of his full twelve stone, stitches and all, is a _very_ bad move.

But even with agony shooting up his arm, letting go—falling a full storey into a yard of Blighters without backup—would be worse. _Much worse_.

His nearest respite is a flagpole, stuck crookedly beneath the eaves, and Jacob’s foolishly glad no one is watching: he throws himself desperately at the pole, knocking the air from his lungs and landing hard across his ribs _—_ _goddammit—_

Breathing heavily and cursing it all every which-way under the sun, Jacob hauls himself up onto the flagpole with an indignant grunt, eventually dragging himself up to the roof.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, allow the throbbing of his ribs to subside and the bruising of his pride to ebb away.

The latter might take a while longer than the rest.

Jacob sighs harshly through his nose, just _knows_ that his hand’s begun bleeding again, swears he can feel the blood beneath the wrapping when he flexes his palm. Feels sticky-hot, and fucking _hurts_. Buggering hell.

“ _Bloody fool_ …” he admonishes himself under his breath. Might as well, it’s most likely what Evie would say, were she here.

It’s definitely what Father would have said.

Glaring at nothing in particular, Jacob blinks as a light dims in the flats opposite, then goes out.

Ted’s flat.

His fella must have finally sunk into bed, turning in early. Theo’s the type who keeps regular hours, who fancies getting a head-start on the day.

It’s shameful.

Despite that major character flaw, Jacob also knows his man will have bandages, and surely a comforting word—the mere thought settles him like a balm, helps ease the pain of his hand.

Sucking in a breath and making himself get on, Jacob prowls silently to the other end of the roof, finds yet another group of Blighters down in the courtyard, huddled miserably around a flaming barrel while another bloke chews them out.

“You twats be careful with this cargo!”

The one barking the orders is the lankiest red, wearing last decade’s stovepipe hat like a battered crown.

“ _So out of season_.” Jacob tuts to himself, amused.

“This parkesine needs gettin’ to Attaway’s depot in one piece. The smallest _bump_ , and it goes up! Along with all of you!”

The smile promptly drops from Jacob’s face.

“Uh, boss. Shouldn’t we split the load up—”

“—you’re not paid to think! Now get to work.”

Three of the men split off, but loud-mouthed Long John and a broad-chested baldy stay behind for a bit of a chat.

Jacob further creeps up to the top of the roof, pokes his head over the summit to get a better view of the whole yard.

He spies two other storage sheds, besides this one: the first is all but empty, nothing but a few cracked wheels and scattered spokes in the dust. But the other… looks like half of Millner’s fleet _is_ housed here nightly, Pearl was right.

Jacob can count ten Blighters altogether, can’t see the entire place though, but that’s a start—and bang in the centre of the courtyard is a wagon, stuffed full of ink-stamped crates.

He doesn’t need Aleck’s smarts to figure out what’s in there.

To further complicate matters, his eye catches movement at the corner of the yard: another Blighter’s been given his marching orders, and he’s bringing in a horse through the gate.

No doubt it’s to be latched to the wagon to pull it out of here.

Jacob _cannot_ allow that to happen.

Sliding back down the roof on his arse and heels, Jacob halts at the drainpipe and peers over the edge, looking down the way of his Rooks: still there, as expected. Brilliant. Though he can’t miss Reshma glaring his way, both hands high above her head as if asking for an update.

Oh God.

He hopes she didn’t catch his monumental failure of an ascension, if one can even call it that—he essentially fell _upwards_ , even more of a feat than falling flat on his arse.

Mortifying.

Jacob stands tall and gives the signal, watching his Rooks immediately erupt into brawling with the two Blighters guarding the entrance.

He’s so proud.

Remembering _he_ also has a part in this plan, Jacob about turns faster than a recently-elected official—back in his eavesdropping position of before, he’s crouched and at the ready. Sees that Long John and his croney are still milling about, with no one else around.

Fantastic.

Voices come floating from the other side of the yard, shouting and yelling. There’s no doubt his Rooks have swiftly polished off the first two Blighters, and are onto antagonising the rest.

With that delightful distraction underway, and before these two can scarper, Jacob carefully leaps for the nearest tree, scaling his way in the dark to the soggy ground and out of the leader’s view.

Darting over to duck behind storage crates, he’s less than five feet away from his two marks, although one is facing him directly. He’ll have to wait.

Seems luck—and Rooks—are on his side, as his lads burst onto the scene and both blockheads turn away, alerted by the commotion.

In two strides Jacob’s right behind Baldy, drives his hidden blade square up the centre of his back. Chooses not to stifle the man’s squeal of anguish, allowing it to draw Long John’s attention instead.

By the time the man turns Baldy’s flat on the floor, and Jacob’s less than an arm’s length away, gleaming gold in the blazing firelight.

“ _I’m_ not paid to think, either—”

Horrified shock sits upon the Blighter’s face as he realises too late what's happened—his throat is cut and he drops like a puppet with its strings sliced, joining his understudy on the cold ground.

Jacob’s already stepping over him, wiping the red smears on the hem of his coat before drawing back the blade. Strides past the parkesine-stuffed wagon to a marvelous sight of chaos, credit only to his Rooks, with the last two Blighters cut down before his very eyes.

With its handler bleeding out in the mud, the horse runs off, glad to be free. Its reins never even touched the wagon.

As they lope up to him, Jacob’s relieved to see all six of his lads here and accounted for.

“Well done, Rooks! I think this deserves a pint.”

Agreement all around only broadens his grin.

“What now, boss?” Herb; he's a skinny bloke even older than Ned, but at least twice as broad, and less than half as churlish.

Jacob claps his hand to his heart, proud. “ _Now_ , we put on a show.”

Reshma scoffs, leaning her elbow on Tommy’s shoulder despite being roughly the same height as her mate, who’s looking out of breath. “ _That_ wasn’t good enough?”

“Oh no, that was grand. But I’m thinking of something a little more, _explosive_.”

To the credit of a half-dozen confused mugs, no one but Jacob heard the parkesine plot—and so he explains, after recruiting all hands to roll said cart towards the back of the yard, and towards Millner’s sleeping buses.

" _Heave ho, Rooks_!"

Everyone grumbles at his chipper mood, until young Ben offers up, helpfully.

“I’ve got matches if you need ‘em, Guv.”

Jacob doesn't often like shooting down well-intentioned ideas, but this one needs shooting, stuffing in a coffin, and floating out to sea.

“That is _not_ a good idea.”

The Rookie’s thin shoulders droop, and Jacob clarifies, continuing the push. “We need to be as far away as possible—when this thing goes up—I don’t want any of you getting snagged in the blast.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, with only the creak of the cart and the grunts of him and his Rooks in their crusade, before Reshma pipes up.

“ _Aww_ , the boss has a _heart_.”

The six of them erupt in laughter all around and Jacob glares at the peeling paint at the end of his nose, shoving harder for good measure.

“Shut it.”

They’re his own words, but hell, if he didn’t hear them in Teddy’s voice—he’s got it bad, and no mistake.

“And when was that ever in doubt?!”

The lads continue their heckling, shoving Jacob’s shoulders, jostling him into something resembling a smile, and before long he’s trying not to laugh at himself.

Once the wagon is in place, fit snugly between five of Millner’s buses, they all mosey back, admiring their work.

“Primed and ready.”

Jacob makes a show of wiping his hands, and when he turns around to greet his Rooks, his grin is as bright as this yard will soon be.

“You enjoying this a bit too much I think, Jacob.” Reshma falls into step beside him as they trail away from the imminent fireworks display. It’s not a question—the curve of her pointed brow says as much. Always so astute, his Reshma.

He tries something.

“Didn’t enjoy some earlier parts, so I might as well this.”

When she doesn’t respond straight away, and Jacob worries his lip, feels a trickle of nerves building in his gut. A leader probably shouldn’t go round airing his failures, he thinks belatedly. Probably not the done thing for morale.

But then Reshma’s sharp features shift, to something very nearly thoughtful.

“Hm. If it helps, no one else saw those _earlier parts_ , if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That _is_ what he’s worried about, though knowing she was the only soul to witness him nearly _tumbling_ _off the roof_ is a comfort in itself.

“That does help.”

His smile is a silent thanks, and she returns it in kind, throwing a chummy elbow in his side.

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t a laugh.”

“ _Alright_.”

They’ve nearly reached the entrance to the yard when Jacob stops altogether, calls the six of them so they’ll turn around, heed his words. “Right, that'll be all. You lot get as far away as possible before I set this thing off.”

“You gonna be out the way too, boss?” Tommy wonders, ruddy-cheeked with concern.

Jacob smirks to himself.

“Don’t worry about me.” He has a nearby bolt hole he can run to, and thoroughly plans on it. 

Jacob waits for the gang to part, disappearing out the open gate and hopefully straight into their waiting carriage.

On his way back towards the parkesine wagon, the sky above rumbles deep in warning.

He can see stars twinkling out from the dark heavens, but at the edges, dusky grey clouds are beginning to creep in, threatening to hide them. If they carry on, the rain will help douse the flames later tonight, if it doesn’t burn itself away before then.

Coming to a stop, boots squelching in the shallow puddles of the yard, he pulls out his trusty Beaumont to check the cylinder—all five chambers full—before spinning it closed with a flick of his wrist.

Jacob makes absolutely certain that he's far enough away, but close enough to be within firing range, before he carefully lines up the barrel with the rear of the cart and its overflowing contents.

Holds his breath.

Ignores the trembling on his right hand.

The one holding the gun.

Hopes that Miss Attaway is paying her full attention from her velvet seat in the stands, because this is going to be one _hell_ of a spectacle.

If only for her to witness exactly how Jacob Frye operates.

Pulling the trigger, there's no delay in the reaction.

Pin.

Spark.

Bullet.

Smoke.

Kickback.

Impact.

 _BOOM_.

The shockwave hits Jacob's body like the ghost of a freight train, makes him take a step back but his eyes widen, _feels_ the heavy blow in his lungs as the explosion rocks the entire area, lighting up everything in the imminent scene, including Jacob’s grin.

A plume of fire, flames and dirt black smoke fly upwards, hitting the roof of the tin shed the buses were parked under and billowing outwards.

He says _were_ , as all but two are turned to splinters where they stand, the other two to the far right, are merely well aflame, already burning as if they've been going for hours.

Immediate destruction aside, there's chaos everywhere else; the loose horse of before is in panic, goes thundering by mere feet away, barely missing Jacob, just as he hears the rest of the stables kick up an ungodly fuss somewhere behind him.

Houses across the road—the ones down Teddy's row—begin lighting up lamps, curtains twitching, silhouettes at the windows—

That's Jacob’s cue to get out of here.

In no time at all he's striding briskly across the main road, hood still up, head down, aiming to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

Walking up behind Pearl's carriage on the side street, he's surprised when he sees her hanging out the window.

"Miss Attaway." He calls, to draw her focus away from the show. Jacob tugs his hood down and runs a hand through his hair just as she turns firelit, sparkling eyes his way.

"Enjoying the view?"

“ _Immensely_.” Her smile is sharp-toothed, delighted as she claps her hands together. “I can see Millner’s stock price plummeting already!”

Right. Not exactly the upshot Jacob would be most chuffed about, but whatever puts that gleeful smile on her face is fine by him.

He turns to watch as another plume of fire and smoke bursts into life. Must be some residual parkesine, or maybe something he couldn't even see catching alight.

Either way, he’s content; more than satisfied with the outcome.

" _That_ was meant for your depot."

He's watching Pearl's face from the corner of his eye, her keen gaze clouding with sudden displeasure.

"A cart full of parkesine, _all_ with your name on it."

“Those _fiends_ ,” she hisses, as if she wasn’t just celebrating Millner’s destruction by the very same method moments ago. Staring into the flames, her delicate lips twist. “Bastards!”

Jacob tweaks a brow, bemused.

Steadily composing her expression after a moment, Pearl sniffs, sudden fury ebbing as she pats at her perfectly-pinned hair with almost deadly calm, smile flickering back into place as though it never left.

“You’ve certainly proven your _worth_ , Mister Frye.”

He's not too keen on the insinuation, but Jacob’s not going to stand and argue with her while half of Southwark goes up in flames behind them.

"And you _yours_ , Miss Attaway." He watches one finely-curved brow arch a little higher, seemingly amused with his cheek. "I'll be in touch."

“Drop a note to my secretary, would you? I can’t very well have you showing up at my home, you know.”

"I wouldn't _dream_ of it." Jacob steps away with a smirk, pulling his hood back up and slipping away from the well-lit street into the night. “ _Drive safe_.”

Their time together may have gone better than he could have hoped for, but Jacob’s glad to be out of there.

Not to mention, he has _no_ earthly idea how to get in touch with the woman's secretary, or how else to seek her out… eh.

He'll think of something.

 _That_ is a problem for future Jacob Frye, whereas the _present_ Jacob Frye has something much more absorbing to contend with.

Walking with a rushed pace, he heads back down the main road, past the market entrance and along. The entire place is still as deserted as a public house with dry taps, but Jacob hurries on over the damp and puddle-ridden cobbles.

No sooner has he stepped foot upon the opposite side of the street, than he hears the far-off toll of over-shined metal bells; multiple carriages, and they're in a hurry, both rozzers and fire engines, most likely.

Shit.

The roaring inferno on the street over has to have garnered their attention, and Jacob would very much like to keep that attention away from himself.

Thinking on his feet and with the abrasive cacophony of brass growing ever louder, Jacob lines up his grapple on the nearest and highest of eaves, braces himself for the jolt just as a police wagon comes swerving around the bend a few houses down, heading straight for him.

He fires and is hauled up immediately, and _thank_ _Christ_ for the lack of daylight for as soon as he reaches the roof, grabs a one-handed hold of the tiles and peers behind, does the peeler cart go riding up the curb he was just stood on, coming to an unceremoniously clumsy halt halfway up the pavement and smacks into a lamppost, bending it.

Bloody fools.

He watches them for a brief time, fussing and running around like headless chickens in a molasses spill. Jacob snickers, appreciating the good show.

He makes swift work of the handful of houses between him and Theo’s place, sparing glances and hurried looks at the inferno across the road, and the bobbies below.

They've split off and seem to be searching the area, scouring the streets and nearby buildings, looking for the devilishly handsome culprit, no doubt.

Perhaps he better enter through the back of the house, rather than in full view of half the Met and fire brigade.

Upon reaching Teddy's roof, he slides his way down to the rear windows. He’s not expecting them to be open, but he is surprised to see the light turned on through the closed curtains.

He raps on the thin glass, and waits, stoked to finally see Theo.

Jacob stayed the night before, saw his man this morning… but, _still_.

There’s a scrabbling sound within, bare feet padding across floorboards and then—oh, blessed sight, as the curtains fling back and Teddy’s sweet, bewildered face comes into view, window flying up to greet him.

“Jacob!”

In return, Jacob smiles his brightest, but doesn't say anything. Climbs in through the open window and passes Ted by with a trailed hand along his trim waist.

Once inside, he draws his hood down, allows the warm air of the room to hit his chilled skin, and the usual comforting smells of Theo’s cosy home take over, makes Jacob sigh, safe and sound.

Hearing the window close behind, he cards a hand through his messy hair, mussing it further, and turns to see Teddy fastening the latch, drawing the curtains.

"Did you miss me?" Jacob beams while Ted steps nearer, dark circles like bruises beneath his eyes—poor bloke, a night of sleep would do him good. Not that Jacob has come with _sleep_ in mind, exactly.

“To be sure,” Teddy says, but he’s frowning still, looking past to the window. “You heard the blast? _Christ_. Shook the bloody rafters, that.”

 _Oh…_ maybe _that's_ why Ted looks distracted.

Jacob has the good grace to look apologetic, "Did the noise wake you?"

Theo scrubs a hand across his face with a weak, disbelieving chuckle. “And half of Southwark, I’d wager. Is that the fire brigade?”

"And the police."

“ _Jaysus.._.” There’s a pause as Teddy shifts restlessly from foot to foot, floorboards creaking. Jacob doesn’t know what to say without implicating himself, but then there’s a gentle hand on his—Ted’s fingers come away slick, and red.

“Jacob, you’re _hurt_.”

Glancing down, he turns over his palm to see his hand-wrap soaked, muddied with blood, leading drips on the floor.

Jacob groans.

“Damn it all.”

He was right: his embarrassing fumble bust the stitches, or at least ripped open his skin.

He was supposed to have these taken out next week.

And oh, yeah. _There’s_ the pain.

He looks back to Teddy, sees the concern written all over his face.

Jacob hates it.

Especially when it stems from something that was entirely his fault, and preventable. _And_ foolish.

“I slipped, put too much weight on my hand, and…” Jacob motions weakly with the very-visible consequences of that slip, watching Ted’s brows tug fretfully as he examines the bloodied bandages.

The sting is keen, but the worry creased into his fella’s fine face hurts more than anything else.

“Sit,” Theo finally orders, already heading for the basin with a look over his shoulder. “On the bed, darlin’.”

Jacob does, unhappily eyeing Ted’s patchwork quilt and then his sooty coat, before settling himself gingerly on the edge of the mattress.

"I didn't mean to..."

He begins slowly unwrapping his leather brace. It’s spooled over his ruined bandages and glove, needs taking off before anything else.

It’s a fumble one-handed, but he manages, dropping the strip of leather to the floor as Teddy joins him on the bed, lanky legs already tucking up beneath him.

“Here now, let us see.”

Theo’s gentle, getting at his bandages with deft fingers and little judgment, tutting to himself at the damage. Dips a clean cloth into the basin he’s brought over, wincing even more than Jacob when he touches at the wound.

“Thanks,” Jacob tries, hoping to ease the worry from Ted’s face, but casts his look aside when the pain becomes too much—and lands directly on his gauntlet.

His _gauntlet_.

_Shit._

_Well_ , _of course_ _you’re wearing your gauntlet_ , chides the little Evie lounging at the front of his mind, _you were just in the middle of an important infiltration and sabotage mission_.

Thing is, oh-dearest-sister-who-isn’t-even-here, _Ted_ doesn’t know that. Nor does he know about the Assassin Brotherhood; likely doesn’t know they _exist_ , let alone that Jacob is one.

There’s no doubt in his mind that Teddy’s already taken notice of his gauntlet—his man is the furthest thing from foolish, for a start. And he noticed the wound before even Jacob did, has probably seen the butt of his Beaumont, stuck out his waistline like a sore thumb, and maybe the kukri strapped to his thigh. Most _likely_ hasn’t clocked the ten throwing knives hung neatly inside his coat.

Perhaps he could explain those away, your garden-variety gang leader’s gear of choice, but the thought of lying to Theo makes him ill.

It was Jacob who triggered the explosion that woke him, Jacob who invaded his flat to lick his wounds. _Jacob_ , who has tracked ash and soot upon his bed, bled all over his floorboards.

A regular man these items and actions do _not_ make.

Jacob’s expecting questions, like he’d always have back home; a barrage of _why’s_ and _how’s_ and _well why didn’t you do it this way’s_ or his favourite, _do it again, but the correct way_. All of which he fucking _despises_ , but.

His bloke hasn’t asked any questions.

Yet.

Better get out in front of it.

“It was me.”

Theo’s chin jerks up almost instantly, and Jacob shoves ahead while he’s still got the guts for it, dragging his unharmed hand down his face. “I, uh, set off the blast. That depot belongs to Starrick’s man. We’re working with a rival bus company to bring him down.”

He watches understanding dawn on his bloke, watches Theo reach for the bottle of cheap brandy in his supplies with a bemused look.

“You could warn a man, next time.”

Uncapping the drink, Theo soaks the wad of gauze with a quiet, aching sigh.

“Gonna sting like the devil, this.”

Jacob doesn’t care how much it’s going to hurt—Teddy’s the kindest sort, putting up with this, barely batting a lash at the reveal. Too bad it’s not the biggest one of the night.

Ted also wasn’t bloody lying when he said it was going to _sting_.

“ _Sweet Mary mother of_ —”

Jacob screws his eyes shut and turns his head aside, loathe for Theo to witness the pain on his face, although he can’t stop everything. Gasping, he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth while the gauze is _pressed_ across the open wound.

Thank Christ he was out of it when they stitched him up in the first place.

“ _Easy_ , nearly through,” Teddy soothes as Jacob’s eyes burn with unshed tears, feeling weak as water when he’s handed the bottle. “Here. Get that down ya.”

Jacob does, if only for something to focus on while he gets fixed up.

But all the brandy in the world can’t rid him of the nerves twisting in his gut, the persistent little worry Jacob wishes would _bugger off._

As a child, he had it _hammered_ into his skull never to reveal the Assassin order—their secrets, their mere _name_ out in the air could cause a death, a gaffe. The whole organisation could come crumbling down, all from of a careless slip of his tongue.

Truly, Father gave him too much credit.

But still, it’s there. And Evie hasn’t helped over the years, parroting that same rhetoric every time they so much as left the house. The mouthy little doppelgänger.

 _Don’t mess this up, Jacob. And if you get caught, don’t say anything_!

Well, he did get caught, and he _did_ say something… and it did cost lives…

“Jacob.”

He blinks.

“Y’alright?”

“Uh, yeah… _yeah_. Sorry, love.”

Theo cradles his hand, cheeks pink with relief. “So long as you don’t faint on me.”

No time like the present. Might as well just jump straight in.

“Ted. There’s something else.”

Teddy looks up again, willing for him to go on with those warm, trusting eyes.

 _Bugger_.

So he takes a deep breath, and tries to bat away the urge to take a pull of liquid courage. Now or never, Jacob.

“I’m… _more_ than just a gang leader. There’s a secret order. Sworn to fight against injustice, against…” Jacob squeezes his eyes shut, good hand waving as he gropes for the right words. “Against villains like Starrick.”

A pause. He can feel Ted’s hands on his wrist, beginning to gently tug fresh bandages up over his knuckles.

“Go on.”

Jacob licks his lips, mouth dry as dust.

“Well. Starrick himself, actually—he has his own order, more of a cult. Call themselves the Templars, they want control over… everything. Industry, trade. Labour.”

Ted watches him now, dark eyes narrowed. There’s a pucker between his brows that only shows when he’s lost in worry, or deep in careful thought—he’s seen it before, when Ted’s nose has been buried in one of his books. Jacob desperately hopes it’s the latter.

“And my order, see. We want to stop them. Keep people free.”

“Mm.” Theo carefully twists the wrap around his scarred forearm.

To say Jacob was bracing for the worst is an understatement, but Ted’s barely batted a lash.

It’s going better than expected.

Maybe Father and Evie were wrong, all along.

“It’s what I was brought up doing, me and Evie. Since we were kids.”

Jacob swallows, hard.

“But sometimes we have to do, ugly things. Take the lives of powerful people, to protect the vulnerable. It’s… a messy business.”

“Ah,” Ted says mildly, and then, “I see,” in a voice that clearly does not see, but is trying all the same. Those long, clever fingers wind over his own; curl around Jacob’s two remaining digits with such unexpected tenderness that he very nearly sobs.

Looks up despite his better judgment, and finds his fella gazing back.

“This takin’ lives business,” Theo starts, squeezing at his fingers. “Any worse than what happened in that prison?”

Jacob's startled by the comparison, but somewhere behind that thought he knows Ted’s only getting the measure of him, of this new line of work. “ _No_. I make it as swift as possible, and only when I have to.”

“I thought as much.”

Jacob watches him, for what feels like a long time. Teddy carries on—releases his fingers to tie off the bandage, runs a gentle, achingly caring hand down his arm, and sighs. "Finished."

“Is that it?” Jacob blurts, half-wondering when he knocked his head earlier if he scrambled his brains—Theo’s taking this almost _too_ well. “You truly don’t… mind?”

Theo shrugs. Plucking back the brandy and the ruined bandages, he sets them on the floor beside Jacob’s dirty boots.

“These people you kill, to spare others. They deserve it?”

“Well, _yes_ —”

“Yeah,” Theo murmurs, looking suddenly, inexplicably fond. “I don’t think that’s so terrible, then.”

Knocks Jacob for a bloody loop when his fella outright grins, gaze drifting from Jacob’s face to his person. Ted’s dark brows knit together again as he reaches out, drags a thumb across his gauntlet, the raised lines of the Brotherhood’s crest embossed upon the leather.

“What’s this?”

“Uh, our... our order’s emblem. Don’t ask me what it means, I don’t know.” Ted quirks an eyebrow, seemingly still interested, with probing fingers tracing over the brace. Jacob scans his face, so much closer now, he could lean in and kiss him.

“Not one for listenin’ in lessons?”

He half-shrugs, “Didn’t care enough to. Doesn’t concern me. I prefer to get the job done, not fart about fussing with imponderables.”

Theo snorts, fingering the empty dart chamber, the pointed tip of his grapple. “And this?”

“Helps me scale buildings easier, and timelier.” Jacob turns over his arm, giving Ted a better look at it. The arrowhead shines in the room’s low light. “Comes out at a right pace, sticks in the building, then hauls me up the side.”

A giddy jolt comes from watching Teddy’s sweet face bloom with wonder, brows raised still higher as he examines the mechanism— _impressed_ , Jacob thinks, and he’s suddenly flush with confidence, beyond eager to show off his pride and joy.

“Oh, Ted you’ll love this, _watch_ —”

Holding his arm out safely away from Theo, Jacob flicks his wrist, triggering the hidden mechanism in the blink of an eye, sharpened blade springing forth with the crisp, telltale _snikt!_ he knows as intimately as his own heartbeat.

“ _Christ_ ,” Theo breathes, reaching out to touch once more, eyes wide. Spends another moment in wordless admiration, mouth half-open as he presses a shy finger to the tip of the blade, moving down its length as Jacob watches, rapt.

It drives a thrill right through the heart of him.

“No wonder you’ve been knockin’ off Blighters left and right,” Ted finally says, with a stunned little laugh, “outfitted like that. Jaysus.”

By now Jacob’s grinning, all the worry of before cast from his shoulders by Teddy’s easy fascination.

“I also have smoke shells, a knuckleduster, _and_ throwing knives.” With the latter Jacob leans back, opens the left side of his coat to show them off. They’re set in two rows of five, slotted inside leather loops he sewed in himself, hanging like fish strung up at a stall.

“I _would_ have a couple more things, but they aren’t ready. A second blade—” He draws the one he does have in with a jerk of his wrist, the slide of metal capturing Teddy’s eye, “—electric shells, oh, a _dart_ that drives the target loopy. Mad. They start attacking anyone close, usually their mates. A proper laugh.”

Jacob’s on his feet now, eager as anything: his buggered hand feels new again, thanks to Ted and his curing touch. Besides, he’s getting a tad warm under his gear, with the little parlour stove behind him heating up the room.

“ _Ah_ —and how could I forget?” Whipping his coat back once again, Jacob reveals his sheathed kukri strapped to the outside of his thigh.

He pulls it slowly from its sheath, holding it out for Ted to view it in all its detailed glory.

Theo takes the knife and at once swears beneath his breath at its weight: Jacob catches a muttered _Holy Mary_ as Ted hefts the thing in one hand, measures it against the length of his bony forearm. When he passes back the kukri, it’s with a shake of his head.

“Puts my little shop knife to shame, that does. Never seen one like it.”

“Mm, you wouldn’t have. It's Indian.” Jacob spins the knife round his fingers, absolutely showing off for his bloke. “Gift from Greenie, for me and Evie, both.”

“Shite,” Theo stares. “Your _sister_ has one too? And me, I nearly tore her ear off that night on the train—a sodding miracle she didn’t run me through.”

After shoving his knife back where it belongs, Jacob starts carefully unbuckling his gauntlet, grins down at his fella’s silliness. “Nah. Your mouth is _much_ deadlier.”

“Feck off,” says Theo, but he’s smirking anyway, pushing off his bed with the basin under one arm. “Fancy a cuppa?”

“Yeah, go on then. Cheers.” Jacob raises a brow as Ted walks past, watches him go, before he sets about removing the rest of his ash-covered outfit. The life-altering reveal of moments before long forgotten. “What's the news today? Keeping Worthington’s well-oiled, I presume.”

Theo snorts. “That’s Ned’s job. He’s not got me out runnin’ yet, strictly in-house. Spent the last two days tryin’ to crack a new safe for him.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Ted doesn’t need to be out in the wild, being so close to danger, after what happened to him an’ all that. Jacob would prefer if he _never_ went back out on jobs again… but that’s not for him to decide.

“I’m sure you’ll get it. Like a dog with a bone.”

Although, _maybe_...

“ _And_ , if you _do_ ever go back out into the field. You can always ask me along.” Teddy turns an arrested look over one shoulder, Jacob occupies his own eyes by gathering his coats. “Solely for back-up purposes, of course.”

“Can I, now.”

Ted busies himself laying another bundle of twigs in the parlour stove, but Jacob can _hear_ him trying not to grin. It’s gratifying, to say the least.

They pass a few moments in comfortable silence while Jacob undresses. Lays the gauntlet, gun, and kukri down on Ted’s desk, stripping off his waistcoat as he heads for the bed.

The covers are rumpled, threadbare and worn, they still have a dusty patch where the soot from Jacob’s coat has settled, and the whole frame creaks when he plonks himself on the edge.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

Ted’s over by the kettle, readying the tea, spoon clinking and his bare feet shifting on the knotted boards. Jacob watches him now, eyes soft on his bloke while he fumbles one-handed at the buttons on his shirt.

Theo’s wearing a dressing gown, draped over his slim form and belted at the waist. It’s one he’s never seen before—good quality, that much Jacob can tell. A deep wine-red that suits Theo’s dark curls, embroidered with delicate leaves and vines, and flowers of miss-matched colours. Looks like a fine lady’s garment, and it’s certainly… _fetching_ , in a Teddy-kinda way.

Jacob loves it.

“I’ve not seen that before.”

At the mention his man looks up, and then back down again; following Jacob’s gaze a return to his own figure with some surprise.

“ _Oh_ ,” Ted says, and rubs at the back of his neck, ears turning pig-pink despite his attempt at a casual slouch. “Nothin’ special, this.”

“Oh, it's definitely special.” Ted huffs at Jacob’s cheesy smirk and turns back to his fussing, and it’s a good job he does—Jacob’s smile slips from his face not a moment later, as he slides off his shirt:

A painful _twinge_ under his right breast makes him gasp as he shifts and Jacob grits his teeth, prods at the tender place. He groans beneath his breath; it’s from when he slipped, landed on his ribs across the flagpole didn't he, same time he ripped his hand open.

Should feel worse tomorrow, and be a rather fetching mottled purple and blue.

He’s looking forward to that.

Drops his hand when the floorboards creak, no sense in further worrying his fella—and Theo joins him on the bed moments after, offering up the warm mug.

“Splash of brandy, extra sugar.”

“Mmm, lovely.” Jacob slips him a wink, letting the warmth soak through his insides and the weight of a long, laborious day roll off his back. “I missed you.”

His eyes flutter shut when Theo leans in, drinks a soft, slow kiss from his lips without further preamble. He takes his time: Theo tastes like tea, like those tinned biscuits on the shelf.

Like home.

“Missed _you_ ,” Teddy breathes, warm and secret in his ear. “This morning. Wished you never left.”

Jacob grins, endlessly happy with this man in his arms. “Had to see to some important new ventures,” he whispers, brushing his lips against Theo’s soft curls.

Namely, he was setting up his best long irons for Ned’s dropoffs, and sending the first lot of Rooks round to Madame Bea’s. Didn’t go himself this time, more’s the pity, but there’ll be plenty of time to gossip with Amelia later—he can’t wait to tell her more about Theo. “But they’re sorted now.”

Jacob nudges the tip of his cold nose against Ted’s clean-shaven cheek. “Alright if I stick around for a few days?”

The way his bloke’s sweet face lights up is all the answer he needs, even with those clever fingers winding in his hair, tugging him in for a proper snog.

“ _More than_.”

Teddy’s panting when they break apart, and Jacob teases a finger down his chest, inside where his dressing gown parts.

" _So_ … what's under _here_?"

Theo only smirks, and Jacob’s sure in this moment, he has never loved anyone more.

The night has ended _very_ well indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise profusely for the long delay in posting!
> 
> I had finally come level with my pre-written chapters and life/work stuff kept delaying writing this one, but we still hope you like it 😊
> 
> Going forward I'm gonna be aiming to update once a month. 
> 
> Subscribe to the story to get emails notifications when I post a new chapter 📥
> 
> Anyway, I hope all of you are staying safe, practicing social distancing/staying home where you can, and wish you a very happy holiday season from me and my wife 💖💖💖
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Having a jolly** : slang for having a laugh
> 
>  **Poncy** : British slang for something pretentious, pompous, or related solely to the upper class
> 
>  **Two-a-penny** : meaning of very little worth, cheaply made. So you can see where the character of Philip Twopenny got his name 
> 
> **Piece of piss** : British slang for something very easy
> 
>  **''A full twelve stone''** : 'stone' was the unit of measurement used in the British Empire prior to 1976. 1 stone is equal to 14 pounds. It is still sometimes used today to measure body weight and by older generations
> 
>  **''Last decade's stovepipe hat''** : Jacob is, albeit snobbishly, correct about the Blighter's out-of-season hat; by the 1860's, the fashionable height of top hats was something around 5 or 6 inches tall, like what our boy wears. The previous decade saw them nearing 8 inches. That being said, a lot of working class people could not afford to keep up with the changing fashions, so the Blighter's hat was probably something he wore everyday, regardless of the season, and regardless of some jumped-up little prick's snide remarks
> 
>  **Parkesine** : Alexander Parkes was the inventor of this thermoplastic in 1856, and in 1862 he patented it, naming it after himself. His joy was short-lived however, as by 1869 Parkes' company had gone bust and he sold the patents on, never truly knowing just how important his invention was - its common name today is Celluloid. You might be forgiven for thinking that Parkesine is an explosive, going by the game's lack of explanation. It isn't. It is regarded as the world's first thermoplastic, but the raw ingredients are stored as gases and pressurised liquids, such as propene and ethylene, which is why it is so volatile, dangerous, and can be blown up easily 
> 
> **All five chambers full** : in reality the Beaumont-Adams revolver Jacob is using had a 5 chambered cylinder, even though revolvers are (usually) known for having 6. A fact the game itself ignores, because if you equip it in-game, it's 6 chambered


	23. i'll be your man if you got love to get done

Every time he wakes here, it feels like the softest of blessings.

Huffing a happy sigh into his pillow, Jacob dares a peek to his left, fully expecting Theo to be conked out beside him, face soft and slack with sleep—

 _Wants_ him to be, for that way Jacob can hook an arm round his fella’s waist, pull him closer, maybe have a little early-morning fumble in the sheets.

And yet, only an empty, Teddy-less space is there to greet him, sheets already cool beneath his hands.

Frowning, Jacob drags his face out the pillow, squinting miserably in the light as a shuffling at the foot of the bed draws his eye.

“Ted?”

Shoves himself sluggishly onto his back with a grunt, baring himself to the chill of the room, bed sheets pooling round his ankles.

Ted's close by the door, pulling on a shirt with his back to the bed. He's got trousers on already—more’s the pity—depriving Jacob of a smashing view.

Relief wells in him like a spring, watching Ted run a hand through those untidy curls with a sleepy grin, yawning.

“Now where’re _you_ goin’?”

Teddy starts where he’s still doing up his buttons, whirling around with a look like he’s been caught with his hand in the coin jar.

“ _Jacob_. You’re awake.”

"No need to sound so surprised."

His fella takes a step towards the bed, enough for Jacob to see his boots already laced. “Thought I’d let you sleep, while I got us some food. There’s a market just over the road.”

Food?

That piques his interest.

"Why didn't you say so."

And of course he knows about the market, he was there last night. Albeit _not_ to sample any seller's wares.

Jacob pushes himself up to rest on his elbows, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I'll come too."

Ted quirks a grin, dropping that tight little arse on the edge of the mattress before leaning in, kissing his cheek. “Alright.”

Jacob slides an arm round Theo then, running it gently up and down his fella’s back. Keeps him close, near enough to steal a lingering kiss from his lips… he’s grinning when they part and Ted floats there, breathless.

And now that he's pliable, perhaps one more try, for luck.

"Y'sure you won’t spend _just_ five more minutes in bed…?"

“ _Nuh_ ,” Teddy laughs, and writhes out of Jacob’s catching hands like an eel down the docks. “You’ll have your wicked way and then go moanin’ you’re starved, and me, too knacked to get up again.”

Damn.

Jacob smirks, rests on his elbow, sneakily judging the distance between them as only a few feet now, and makes a grab for him—

"I'll get _you up_ —"

He _just_ misses but they’re both laughing for it, while Teddy slips well out of reach, safely doing up the rest of his buttons.

Jacob admits a lazy defeat and yawns again, languidly stretching both arms up over his head. His fingertips are reaching towards the sloped ceiling when a cloud of fabric hits him squarely in the chest, _thwaps_ between his collarbones—last night’s trousers, slightly worse for wear.

“Get dressed, first. You’ll put someone’s eye out with that.”

Smirking again, Jacob does as told and slides them on one leg at a time, fastening up the placket with careful fingers. His hand still aches, very much sore from the busted stitches of last night.

"Might need a new shirt. Got one I can borrow?" He ponders, absently.

Ted studies him a moment, lips twitching before he turns away, heading for the neat row of pegs by the door. When he finds what he needs and crosses back to the bed, it's with the fondest of looks.

"May wear a bit snug, I'm afraid."

Brow cocked, Jacob takes the proffered garment, shaking out the folds and stretching it in his hands, appraising.

"Looks fine to me."

Slipping on the shirt, he’s wincing a little at the _tug_ on his ribs—admittedly, it _is_ a trifle snug. But not unbearably so, and Jacob sighs, twisting and shuffling the hem for a better fit.

He can put his arms down at least. That's something.

"Not bad, right?"

Leaving the buttons at his neck unfastened, Jacob dares an expectant look Teddy's way, waiting for approval.

“Not bad,” Ted echoes, clearly tracing the spread of his shoulders with hungry eyes—and if earning Theo’s shameless stare means borrowing his clothes more often, well.

That’s a sacrifice Jacob is _happy_ to make.

It's a short minute or two until they're both fully dressed and decent—decent enough for Southwark on a Sat'day morn, anyway.

On their way out the door, Jacob waits a few steps down while Teddy locks up his little home. "Try n' be quiet, yeah? The neighbours aren't best pleased with me."

Jacob barely holds back laughter as he follows down the stairs; the mere suggestion is ridiculous at best. Ted's a bloody model tennant, what could they possibly have to complain about?

"All those wild midnight bashes finally hitting a nerve?"

There must be _something_ , apparently, as that sweet face flushes positively pink.

“The bloke below me,” Teddy finally mumbles, jerking his thumb as they pass by the aforementioned flat. “Thinks I’ve got a woman upstairs. Said he could hear us _goin’ at it_.”

Jacob snickers into his fist, utterly tickled.

"Jealous, is he?" Ted gives him a _look_ over his shoulder, the amusement seems to have missed its mark.

He takes no heed.

This is hilarious.

"If only he could get a bird as fit as me." Jacob preens, mostly for show.

“Feck off,” Theo groans, voice low as they tread down the stair. “Clarissa’s got _rules_ for us lodgers, no women allowed—could get thrown out if he takes mind to complain.”

"Last time I checked—'bout three minutes ago—I was _not_ , a woman, Ted."

Teddy whirls him such a frosty glare, he nearly misses a step. “Oh yes, I’m sure your bein' a _bloke_ would be _miles_ better.”

Jacob frowns, thinking seriously this time, "We'll have to keep it _down_ , then." Ted follows that with a somewhat softer look, and Jacob turns his nose up for the next, teasing, "Or do nothing at all."

 _That_ earns him a snort, but Theo’s dark eyes are dancing.

“Don’t think you could manage _nothin_ ’ if you tried.”

Jacob takes that as a compliment.

Must have slipped Ted's mind that they managed _nothing_ last night, and things were just fine and dandy.

It's true, they didn't shag or anything, but then, they didn't need to. There’s other ways of loving besides, he’s learning—sweet words, and sleeping warm curled closely like birds in a nest.

Was nice, joyful even—bein' together without that. Both are good. It's a gift, having the choice: having someone _to_ have the choice _with_.

They make swift time down the stairs and out the door, through the short back alley, crossing the main road in no time. The market’s a clamour, even this early; Jacob can hear it well before they ever see the thing.

"You come down here often? I know you survive on black coffee, and hatred for the English."

“My coffee stall is just here,” Teddy fairly gleams, motioning past the nearest cart as they round the corner. “And I prefer milk and sugar.”

Jacob laughs, sees Ted looking pleased with himself. Good. Though once they’ve passed through the market’s red double gates, Jacob’s a bit taken aback—

It's packed to the bloody rafters!

The rows of stalls are stocked full of freshest goods and finest wares, piled high up to the canopies and spilling out low onto the ground—artfully arranged, mind.

Tents line each side of the cobbled way, and between appears to be every soul in Southwark out for a morning shop.

“Hungry for anythin’ particular?” Ted’s question cuts through Jacob’s daze, turning to look his way.

"From the market, or generally?" Jacob's watching him with a simmering smirk.

“Take your pick,” says Theo, lips twitching.

“Hm… now I’m not _quite_ certain, _sir_ ,” Jacob waves a theatrical hand, almost knocking a nearby bloke in the face, and earning _tsks_ from passersby which he roundly ignores.

"I'll have to get back to you on that."

“I’m countin’ on it.” Teddy looks sly, like he wants to say something else, but thinks better of it.

Hmm.

"You look like you have an idea yourself." Jacob leans in, sticks close to Ted as they weave their way deeper into the thrumming crowd.

“Coffee,” Ted nods decisively, leading the path towards an open cart; Jacob should have guessed. “Or _tea_ , if you’d rather.”

"I would, actually."

“Mornin’ to you, Mary.” When they reach the cart Ted’s smile is easy, familiar, and the apple-cheeked woman behind it beams back, as cheery as a Sunday-morning.

“Two slices of currant cake, and a coffee if you please. And a brew for my man here.”

“Right you are, love. And who’s your friend?”

"Morning." Jacob answers with a smile when the woman flicks a look his way, trying to sell the tale, "A friend from work. I'm new."

Seems to go over well enough, for Mary only nods and goes about her business, getting their grub ready.

Jacob leans at the edge of her stall, aiming that grin like a cocked gun, glancing between her and Theo.

"I suspect you'll be able to retire soon with how much time he spends here."

Ted’s made no secret of his love for a good strong coffee; Jacob had laughed at him swilling mug after mug back on the train, once his stomach could hold it down.

Come to mention it, he might have even mumbled something in that godawful cell, wishing for some small comfort, the warmth.

Jacob’s memory’s still a little fuzzy when it comes to that.

“You’re not half wrong,” Mary puffs, busy filling two short mugs with milk and sugar. “And he always tips like a prince, this one. Good as gold, mister Theo is.”

“Go on,” Teddy murmurs, hiding his gaze as he sifts through his coin; a fluster always looks good on him.

He watches Ted quietly from his spot beside the stall, a fond smile resting on Jacob’s face.

Ted’s rubbing the waiting coin with his thumb, pressed flat against his palm, a nervous, jittery kind of energy seems to be running through him.

Either he's anxious about the two of them being seen together here, out in the public eye—or he's gagging for that brew.

“There you are,” says the cheerful Mary, pushing both mugs at Ted. “And only _two_ currant cakes? This gent ‘ere looks like he could put away at least another.”

Jacob’s faster than Teddy, and smug as the devil, "Theo's good at watching my figure."

Ted's eyes go wide as Jacob plucks his tea from his bloke’s stiff hands, turning Mary's way with a wink, and a joke to make her chuckle. "It's one hell of a squeeze in those corsets at the best of times."

“Cheeky man,” Mary laughs, busying herself with cake before handing them off to Jacob anyway. “Enjoy that, now. Just got it off the baker, still warm!”

“Cheers, Mary.” Seemingly recovered, Teddy steps aside to make room for the next customer, and Jacob follows with his good hand curled round the mug, the cake balanced in the crook of his other arm.

"Put that cake in your gob, so you don't drop us in it," Theo grumbles over the surrounding bustle, dark brows set in a soft frown Jacob knows he doesn't mean.

"I'd rather be putting in something else, but, sure." Jacob grins as Teddy glares, shoving a bite of cake past his lips in easy truce.

 _Hm_ , that’s not bad.

It _is_ still warm, and the currants are tangy-sweet—Jacob usually goes for heartier breakfasts, but can’t deny the charm of fresh cake and a good sweet brew. Seems to soften Theo too, as he steps nearer behind the stall, close enough for their hips to touch.

“Alright?” Teddy murmurs, before washing down another nibble of cake with a generous gulp of coffee.

Jacob nods in answer, "You eat this every morning?" He wonders aloud, watching Ted’s dour mood fade right before his eyes as the coffee does its job.

Teddy nods around another bite of cake, bumping his elbow lightly along Jacob’s.

“Most of ‘em, yeah. Sometimes I bring my own cup, take it along to work.”

Puts Jacob in mind of Theo and Ned at the storehouse together without their morning coffee, jittering like they're late for an opium intake, and both as cantankerous as the other. The thought makes him smirk as he shoves in the last of his cake, chasing it down with a splash of hot tea soaking through the sponge.

“I’m guessin’ you might need more than this, though.” Ted’s look is knowing, fond. “I’ve seen the meals you put away on the train.”

" _Yesh_ —" Jacob manages with his mouth still full, swallowing with a gulp. "This is barely a horse- _doovers_."

Ted laughs, startled. “A _what_?”

"A _'horse-doover'_...?" Jacob watches for any sign of recognition in Theo's face... eh, guess not.

He shrugs, sniffs. "Some French thing Evie bangs on about. They're pointless, hardly a scrap."

Teddy only grins, shaking his head. “So what d’ya fancy after this, mister horse?”

"Something more substantial…" Jacob skims a look over the crowd passing by the front of the stall, hoping for inspiration. "Bread!"

"Alright." Teddy’s smile is indulgent, collecting their empty cups and handing them back to Mary’s boy, a lad of twelve or so washing up in a tub behind the cart.

Jacob reins himself in from starting over towards the bakery stall, seeing as his bloke isn't yet finished eating. Crosses his arms and grins instead, raising a brow as he watches Ted nibble a corner of his cake like a dormouse with a dry biscuit.

"Do you eat so slowly _on purpose_?"

“Feck off,” grumbles Teddy, waving a hand to motion him on. “I like to _taste_ my food.”

Jacob laughs heartily.

They make their way across, forcing a path through the throng of people gassing and taking up far too much room in the middle of the market.

Reminds him of being on the platform at London Bridge Station during rush hour, an absolute madhouse, just like that first time he walked Ted home…

Jacob reaches behind and grabs a firm hold of Teddy's thin wrist, saves them from being split up in the pulsing pandemonium trying its very best to pull them apart. Feels his fella grip back, gives Jacob the go-ahead to push on through, falling into the long line waiting for the bakers' cart.

“ _Jaysus_ ,” Theo mumbles, losing his hand but stepping close enough to breathe warm and ticklish in Jacob’s ear. “Packed in, today.”

"It usually this busy? There something going on?" He's half-heartedly looking about—merely sightseeing to outside eyes, but Jacob's really just enjoying the lack of distance between him and Ted.

“More than usual, today.”

His fella’s busy glancing round, the perfect opportunity for Jacob to steal a _squeeze_ of that delectable arse—everyone's close together, he's certain no one can see—and Teddy gives a strangled yelp.

When that powerful glare is turned Jacob's way, he's looking altogether rather _smug_.

"Y'alright there, mate? Keep your wits about you, tea-leafs around here, you know."

“The biggest one _right here_ , and all.” Hefting his satchel, Theo turns to face him fully, that tempting arse just out of reach without causing a spectacle. “Can’t keep his bloody hands to himself.”

"I'm only human, Ted." Jacob shrugs, as if it's a perfectly legitimate defence.

It is.

"Besides, it's been a while."

Ted draws himself up, cheeks aflame. "Barely a _day_ , it’s been.”

Jacob only grins, pleased with himself, before raising his brows suggestive-like. Jacob turns towards the front of the line with a prim kind of satisfaction; can tell his bloke finds all this attention charming, Ted can't get enough.

Not two minutes later he’s proved right, when he feels a hand on his own arse.

It's not squeezing, seems to be more searching, prodding…

 _Well_ …

Jacob’s _more_ than happy to show Teddy around down there—uh—

"— _Oi_!"

Startled, Jacob grabs the skinny runt behind him before he can scarper, dragging him closer, near face-to-face in the claustrophobic crowd.

" _What_ do you think you're doing, you little mobsman!?"

There’s a tiny voice then, in the back of his mind—shoved far, _faaaar_ to the back, covered in cobwebs and ten year's worth of dust—that points out, he sounds _exactly_ like his father.

Fuck off.

"C-C-Clara sed you'd _take care_ _ov'us_ , mister!"

Jacob's brows hold a meeting in the middle of his forehead, and he's not liking the outcome.

The lad starts, looking frantic, "She sed—"

"—That I was a _soft touch_ , yeah, yeah…" Jacob sighs and stands tall.

When he drops the kid’s wrist, the lad doesn’t bolt, but fidgets between them, chastised.

"I've heard that old chestnut before."

He can feel Teddy’s wide eyes on him now, though Jacob’s hard-pressed to say if it’s the boy’s gall, or Jacob’s wrath that’s stunned him so.

Perhaps he was a _tad_ harsh.

Sighing again, his hands slide defeatedly to his hips.

"I suppose you can have something."

The kid's mucky face brightens immediately.

"Tell Clara she can cut this out," Jacob starts rummaging in his purse, mumbling as he goes, " _Cheeky little sod_."

"Yes, sir! Mister, Frye. Sir. Jacob."

He can see Teddy smirking now while he fishes through his purse, pulls out a quid.

That's a lot of money, but the squirt looks like he needs a few good meals inside him, maybe a pair of new shoes that cover his toes, and a shirt with more fabric and less holes.

Poor sprout.

"Here. Don't just buy grub with that. Get yourself some new duds."

The boy nods and takes the money, palming it and holding it to his breast like a sacred treasure. Reminds him how Evie would treat her books when she was this lad's age.

Jacob licks his thumb and wipes a smear of dirt from the boy's thin cheek, just below his eye—now how did that get there—and tugs his ratty flat cap on straight: make him look more presentable when buying.

"Work on your lifting; _lighter_ fingers—" Glancing at Ted, Jacob’s jolted back to the present, "—I thought you were—someone else."

He'd forgotten Theo watching, and Jacob feels his cheeks heating at the unexpected focus—clears his throat and shuffles the kid off, out into the thinning crowd.

He slaps on a gruff-sounding voice.

"Now go on. Off with you."

The kid _giggles_ and Jacob sniffs, half-wondering if that was all a big act, and he got well and truly played by it.

Probably, knowing these bloody urchins.

He trails his gaze back to Ted, levels his brows, suddenly defensive against the pleased smirk turned his way.

"Wot?"

“Nothing.” Teddy answers, clearly biting his tongue, those dark eyes gleaming with delight.

Nothing indeed.

The line moves quickly after that, and Ted’s more than prepared once they reach the stall—firing off his order of sausage rolls, and a pair of sweet buns, and two loaves of brown bread with a crackling crust.

Jacob watches, entranced; and truth be told a touch perplexed, at how smoothly Ted tucks away his rolling vowels, flattens those lilting tones Jacob fancies so much.

Plenty of shops will take an Irishman’s coin just the same as an Englishman's, but there’s always the exception—even here, in Southwark.

Jacob chafes at the thought of Ted hiding himself, at the bare injustice of it all.

 _I’ll fight the bloody world for you_ , he thinks, watching Teddy put away his coin.

They step away, and Jacob heads straight for the baked potato man, snagging two lovely plump, _hot_ , tasty-looking spuds for later. Asks for them to be wrapped up, then he pops them in Theo's satchel.

"Fancy some eel jelly?" Jacob asks expectantly, rubbing his hands together, excited as he eyes the table selling it.

Surprisingly, Teddy pulls a disgusted face, but motions him on anyway. “None for me, but I’ll just see about some fish...”

Eh, to each his own.

They both walk on together, heading further along the row of stalls.

The hustle and bustle of earlier has calmed down now, enough that they can actually walk side by side, bumping elbows, nudging shoulders.

When they reach the fish cart, Jacob goes straight for a lovely cup of eels, watching the steam rise off the fish stock even on this balmy morn.

"Cheers, love." Jacob smacks his lips as he swaps coin for cup, begins devouring the slippery customers inside it.

He steps over to see what Ted's up to at the other part of the stall; motions the cup towards him in a silent ask, and receives a wrinkled nose, and a hasty shake of that pretty head for his trouble.

"Don't get why you don't like this. It's fantastic,” he says, shoving another stick-full of wobbly eel covered with see-through jelly in his gob. "I'd never had it before I came to London."

Theo shakes his head again, but he’s smirking, watching Jacob eat. “The jelly makes me skin crawl. I’m more partial to cockles, anyway.”

Of course.

As if on cue, the fishmonger reappears, bestows upon Teddy a squat little jar, and a fat half-moon shape wrapped in newspaper.

“Cheers,” Ted nods, passing over his coin, and shrugging shyly at Jacob’s questioning look. “Pickled oysters.”

"Mm, I'll have a bit of that later,” he proclaims, sure of it, and Teddy answers with raised brows.

They shuffle off to the side, so's the next punters in line can get their order in, and Jacob can finish his eels.

"And what's in the other? The paper." He asks through a mouthful of jelly.

“Oh, nothin’.” Ted’s trying to look casual, and doing a bloody poor job of it. “It’s, ah. A fish head.”

Jacob halts his chewing, trying for the life of him to figure out why Ted would want a _fish head_ , of all things.

"And what are you planning to do with that?"

“ _Ah_ ,” says Teddy, reaching up and rubbing at his neck. “Well. For… for Cat.”

Slowly, Jacob's grin grows, as wide as it possibly can whilst having a gob full of eel.

Makes worth of every single syllable.

"You absolute _mug_."

And he laughs alongside Teddy’s offended gasp, chortling through his fella’s bashful _feck off_ and nudging him lovingly in the ribs.

“Ay-up, Jacob!”

Turning round immediately upon hearing his name, he clocks a trio of Rooks promenading up behind them. Paul, Tilly, and Zeph, three good eggs.

"Morning, lads."

Jacob gives Paul, the nearest bloke, a slap on the arm in greeting.

"Out on your rounds?" He waves a hand at the stall before they can even answer, "Should try the jelly, bloody _gorgeous_."

“Paulie already had some, guv!” From around his side Paul’s sister Tilly grins, showing off her missing front tooth. “Fine day out, innit?”

"Sure is. We're grabbing some rations for the day." Jacob nudges Ted in the chest with his elbow, but his fella only nods, quiet.

Jacob feels a fond prickle at Ted’s sudden shyness, covering smoothly for him instead.

" _So_ , what's the news? Must have somethin' worthwhile if you lot came over."

"Maybe we're here for your charming personality, guv." Chimes Tilly, crossing her arms with a pleasant smile, clearly taking the piss.

"Nah, can't be that," Paul blurts, earning hearty laughter all around.

" _Comedians_ , the lot of you." Jacob snarks, scooping out his last mouthful. He then pops the now-empty cup back on the stall edge as Tilly serves up the _real_ reason.

"We just 'eard that Blighter nest, over west Southwark; _relaxed_ their bobbies, haven't they." She nudges Paul but he's already nodding along.

Hm. Interesting.

"For how long?" Jacob asks.

"Seems the foreseeable. They must have some sergeant on the payroll." Paul offers, glancing at his mates as if they’ve more to add.

"Wouldn't surprise me,” Jacob mumbles.

"Dirty bastards." Zeph scoffs unhelpfully, scratching at the scar down his nose, even longer than the one ‘cross Jacob’s jaw.

"But they've not lessened their own numbers. Real strange," supplies Tilly.

Jacob ponders that, thinking to himself; they’re probably increasing shipments then. Or looking to store something valuable… not draw attention to the location. Maybe do him good to inform Freddy, and absolutely tell Greenie, can add it in his plan-of-attack for the borough.

Jacob ceases his internal wittering and drifts back to his crew, calling heartily to jolt them all a return, "Good work, Rooks! Keep it up."

All three are looking mightily pleased with themselves—good, they should be—when Zeph jumps in, "We got the usual news, boss. But that can wait till you're back on the rails."

Jacob rubs the back of his neck, carding a sneaky glance to Ted.

"Might be tomorrow. Or Monday." Paul and Tilly look surprised; appears Zeph wasn't quite listening. "Write it down for me."

Tilly snickers, already amused by something yet unsaid—

"But Miss Evie says you can't _read_ , guv!"

—that could have _stayed_ unsaid.

Laughter all around, in some form or another, Teddy _included_.

The traitorous little beanpole.

Jacob slaps on a grudging smile, reluctant to encourage further mutiny in the ranks. “I'll somehow manage, fellas. Now _do one_."

Paul grins and snaps his fingers, and they’re off, but not without one last smirk from Tilly.

“Enjoy your _rations_ , gents,” she winks, making a filthy gesture with a loose fist that has Teddy flushing pinker than a slice of Christmas ham.

Jacob adores his Rooks… but by God, they're a lot to take this early in the morning.

He waits till they're far enough away, then slowly turns to face Ted, stepping closer. " _Well_. Everyone will know where _I_ am this weekend."

“ _And_ what you’re doin’,” Ted murmurs, gaze downcast to his own boots, but he doesn’t sound sorry.

Jacob smirks at the thought, then sighs at the reality, "If we ever get out of this market _alive_."

“Mm,” Theo agrees, looking over his shoulder. “I was thinkin’ then, just the one last thing...”

His fella doesn't explain any further and instead goes walking, leaving Jacob to follow, so he does: strolling behind, casually glancing at the sellers they pass, and what all they have on offer.

It's less crowded at the rear of the market than where they began, he can actually _breathe_. There’s a leather-worker’s stall up ahead, and that seems to be where Theo's heading. Many fine-looking belts and purses on display: Jacob wonders what's up Teddy’s tiny sleeve.

He lets Ted go, instead stopping by a nut vendor, buys a handful of packets before he's on his way again.

Rustling one open, the others bulging in his coat pocket, he comes to stand beside Teddy, shoving fingerfulls of nuts in his mouth.

"Want some?" Jacob offers, gets a shake of a head for his trouble. "Suit yourself,” he chuckles, scratching idly at his scruff while Theo browses, stuffing his mouth full again.

It doesn't take long for Jacob’s attention to wane, ends up drifting over to the stall adjacent, some kind of dressmaker's wares it seems—ah, and _hats_.

He wipes his fingers on his own coat, then starts pawing through the row of flat caps on show, seeing if anything takes his fancy. There might even be something like his old cap, the one he got nicked, when he was taken...

" _Howdo_ , my lovely! See anything that you like, you just let me know!" Beams out the dressmaker, popping in from nowhere and almost making Jacob jump a mile.

"I'm just lookin', love. Ta." He returns her bright smile, sees her wander over to another punter at the opposite side, start chatting. Christ.

Takes him another moment till he finds what he's after.

"Hey, Ted." Jacob swaps out his top hat for a rather fetching flat cap, grinning when he catches his attention, "Just like my old one!"

“That’s a handsome thing,” Teddy smiles, tucking something away in his satchel, glass clinking within. “The one you lost?”

Jacob tugs it on tighter, one side lower than the other. Fits fine and dandy.

"Yeah. Might get it." He glances over the rest of the stall, sticking out his lower lip in contemplation, sees nothing else.

"You should." Says Ted, a familiar and fond lilt threading through his voice again.

Jacob grabs a ladies' hat from a stand and switches them out. Its wide, floppy brim and large ribbon half obscures his face from view when he turns towards Teddy.

"Now _this_ I'm quite partial to." He makes a rather good imitation of Pearl's toffee-nosed voice for the next, if he does say so himself.

" _Think it compliments my eyes_."

Teddy laughs, a chuckle at first until his curly head is thrown back in mirth, leaning against Jacob’s side, shoulders shaking.

“ _Oh_ ,” Theo wheezes, eyes soft and bright with joy. Makes Jacob feel like he’s walking on air, to see Ted look so happy.

“ _Oh_ , you fool,” Theo breathes, warm in Jacob’s ear. “ _How I love you_.”

Heh...

 _Oh_.

"What?"

They stare at each other for moments, or hours _—_ Jacob only knows that those words are sinking in, filling him up with every passing heartbeat.

He then blinks, back down to earth, and slowly curls up a smile. "Did you _—_ "

“ _Yeah_ ,” Teddy murmurs, gaze straying to the absurd hat still upon his head, cheeks aflame in spite of his heartfelt words.

“I did. I _do_.”

From the start he’d set well aside his want—his _need_ —to hear words of love from Theo’s lips, it was far too early for that.

And then Jacob went and blurted them out the first time they’d fallen into bed.

Not his finest moment.

But he’d tamped down those thoughts to the dullest squeal, resigned himself to naught… and now Teddy’s just said them, out loud and _un_ prompted.

 _This_ calls for a celebration.

Jacob reaches down and grips Ted's wrist, a clever little smile peeking out from under the hat.

"And I _still_ love you,” he whispers, almost straying to his tiptoes to get level with those big brown eyes.

"I think I've decided what I'd _particularly_ like..." A hark back to the start of their early outing, when Ted had asked what, if anything, Jacob wished from the trip. He drifts even closer, the hat bumping over Ted's hair, as if they're sharing it.

“I want _you_ ,” Jacob gleams, heart hammering in his chest, “to fuck _me_.”

“Oh Christ,” Teddy manages, free hand curling at his satchel in what looks a painfully tight grip. “ _Jacob.._.”

“Can I presume,” he gleams, tracing Ted’s face with hungry eyes, “that your delightful shock means _yes_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Theo vows, decisively tugging the fine lady’s hat from Jacob’s head and replacing it to the stand with shaking hands, a giddy grin. “Feckin’ _yes_. Let’s go.”

He doesn't need telling twice.

Dropping Ted's wrist, his hand on fire, Jacob grabs his top hat from the stall and follows swiftly after his bloke. He hears a raised voice shouting, high-pitched from behind, but he’s too busy watching Teddy’s engaging walk ahead of him, mind racing a mile-a-minute.

He's ready for this.

 _He's ready for this_.

Been wanting it for _years_. And Theo is probably—no, _surely_ —the best person he could do this with.

Always so careful, and generous. _Loving_. Jacob tries to repay that in kind. He can't imagine his fella being any different when he's the one giving… oh shit, this is happening.

They reach the market entrance in no time at all, make it over the road and up the back of the row of houses where they came from as if the wind itself is carrying them.

Jacob spots Longshanks up ahead, touting her wares at the door, the little huss. Though he's grinning when he sees Ted not even hesitate to stop.

"You not going to feed her?" He teases, knowing the fish head Teddy bought for her as a treat is stinking up his bag as they speak.

“Not _now_ ,” Teddy scoffs, breezing past the meowing at his boots and flinging open the door, holding it wide for Jacob.

Passing through the threshold, he imparts with an artful grin, "No head for you, Longshanks; _only me_."

With Teddy’s scoff of laughter at his back, Jacob’s up the first set of stairs three at a time, and makes a swift job of passing by the landlady's rooms.

They’re up two more flights without incident, fairly sprinting up the steps as fast as they dare, with only puffing breaths in lieu of conversation—but once safely out of sight from the nearest neighbour’s door, Teddy surpasses him on the stair, grabbing him round the waist with eager hands.

“ _Jacob_ ,” he groans, pressing him against the wall with a muffled _thud_ , bodies flush and eager and Jacob grabs back, at once sliding his hands under the satchel, planting them on Ted’s arse.

Oh, this is brilliant; Theo's _already_ hard, grinding against Jacob’s front, and he's fastly getting there himself.

He can do this.

He _wants_ to do this.

Their kiss is desperate, _impatient_ , and Jacob can scarcely say who leans in first—likely a joint effort, teeth clacking in their haste as he shoves a hand between them, rubbing an open palm down Teddy’s dick and grinning when he gasps.

“ _Feck_ , feck—”

Jacob whispers, chuckling to himself and biting at Ted's ear, "He just can't wait— _to take me_."

A hand at the nape of his neck is Ted’s answer, fingers curling rough and wanting in his hair.

“ _Tell me you want this_ ,” Theo gasps, sucking frantic kisses down his jaw.

Jacob lets out a languid groan into the cool air of the stairwell, swallowing hard to wet his throat.

"I want _this_ — _I want this_." He hears himself pleading, head tilted to the ceiling, letting Theo take control—he can't fucking wait. " _I want you_."

“ _Oh_ ,” says Teddy, and then he’s gone—pulled free of Jacob’s grasping hands, boots creaking on the stair. The empty space between them is dizzying, abrupt; Jacob clutches for him anyway.

A clink of keys and Theo’s back again, all but purring in his ear.

“ _Upstairs_.” Theo’s fingers find him now, lacing sweet and hot in his. “Upstairs, _please_ , _before I have you on these steps_.”

He most certainly doesn't shudder at the thought, or lose his voice enough to stall a reply. " _Would that be such a bad thing_..." He eventually murmurs at Theo’s back while his man tries the keys, all but draping himself against Teddy, craving the contact.

“It would,” Teddy rasps, turning the key with a squeal in its lock, “if we were caught.”

Jacob smirks, "I'd be quiet as a—" but before he can finish the thought Ted's already turned, grabbed him by the shoulders and taken his mouth.

Jacob has his eyes closed but he knows he's being led forwards, almost trips over the last step into Teddy's room.

He’s barely time to appreciate the blissful warmth of the little space, the smell of clean sheets and tea and _home_ as the door snaps shut and he’s thrown up against it. Ted’s on him in an instant, and Jacob’s _all-fucking-for-it._

Theo kisses like a man drowning in a desert, like he can’t get his fill of Jacob if he tries—there’s a guiding hand on his jaw, a sweet command for him to tilt his chin, open his mouth, be _filled_ —

“ _Jacob_ , _mine_ ,” Theo breathes, can’t seem to get enough as their hips arch in tandem, door creaking at his back with every move.

This is the bloody life!

Jacob’s along for the ride, lets Theo take control, does as he says and feels dizzy from it.

This is what he's craved, to be wanted—to be _taken_ , and _loved_ —like this he can forget every doubt in his head, everything except how much he's yearned for right now. The touch helps ease the worst of his thoughts; those dark little whispers that he's not _good enough_ , _not_ wanted, not worth anyone’s time…

Here, with this man, that's far from the truth.

When Ted splits their kiss, starts sloppily mouthing up his throat, Jacob lets loose a long, slow _groan_ … tilts his head back, goes slack against the wooden door...

"Ted… _clothes_?" He puts out there, wondering if his bloke's even heard him.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Teddy pants in response, already fumbling for Jacob’s buttons before he can reach for them himself, shuddering when Ted’s teeth scrape roughly over his Adam’s apple.

There's only his borrowed shirt and belt to remove, already having lost his coat, and Theo certainly makes short work of those.

Jacob’s so swept up in what's happening to him, and allowing it to, that he's forgotten to do the same for his fella… although the man himself seems to be taking care of that, dropping his shirt atop Jacob’s discarded coat, and before he knows it Teddy’s body is pressing against his own, skin on skin.

Jacob's desperately getting at Theo's belt buckle, stripping leather through metal to be able to push his trousers down.

The clink and thud of them hitting the floor is forgotten as he wraps his good hand around Teddy’s hard cock; hearing his bloke hitch a deep, _aching_ moan will never get old.

“ _Feck_ , oh Jacob, oh _Christ_ ,” Ted’s clawing at his shoulders, fucking his fist with reckless abandon even as he drags a hand through his hair, smears messy, panting lips at his ear. “ _Stop_ , stop, _I won’t last_ —”

Jacob relents with a throaty chuckle, hears Teddy sigh and gasp with relief.

Any other time he'd have finished Ted off right then and there; against his stomach, messy, dripping on the floorboards… but Jacob needs him hard and wanting, not wilted and satisfied.

That's for later.

"Doesn't bode well, Ted…" Jacob grins in his ear, well knowing how to rile his bloke.

And he’s absolutely right, for the next moment he’s breathing in sharp when Theo slaps a rough hand on his arse, growling low and warning in his ear—“Take your feckin’ boots off, and _get on the bed_.”

"Yes, _sir_."

He rids himself of said pesky boots in record time, slipping away from Teddy’s new-found zest and hopping on the bed.

Jacob could certainly get used to this.

The frame creaks as he throws himself down, lying on his back, in the centre of the bed, hands propping up his head. Watches from between his splayed legs as Theo loses his own boots— _Jacob's_ still trousered, mind. Wants to leave his fella something to unwrap, like a rarefied little _treat_.

Ah, a _big_ treat. A _big_ , treat.

No time for pedantry, Jacob—for Ted has a look in his eye that sends every other thought in his head scarpering.

“Now,” Teddy smirks from the foot of the bed, rakes a starving look down Jacob’s thudding chest, his bare stomach and low-slung trousers, “ _what_ am I going to do _with you_.”

Ignoring that heartbeat roosting in his ears, Jacob slowly tilts his head, juts his chin, and keeps it composed; _expertly_ covering up his nerves in the process.

"Something depraved and unholy, I imagine."

Theo’s wearing the devil’s own grin when he slides firm hands at Jacob’s ankles, holding him in place as much as tugging his loose trousers down; down over his lazy hips, spread thighs.

His _very_ interested cock.

“You have _no_ idea.”

That puts a fair _dip_ of anticipation in Jacob’s belly, especially so when Teddy kneels on the edge of the bed, slowly begins crawling his way up the mattress.

Theo _must_ know Jacob’s never done this before, never taken more width than a finger, surely?

The look in his fella's eye says he's not thought on anything so tedious, yet...

Oh hell, _why_ _is he sweating_?

Must show on his face, these bloody nerves, because Teddy’s whole look softens—his eyes are warm when he sits back on his knees, watching Jacob from an arm’s-length away.

And when he speaks, his words are tame and tender; little more than a whisper.

“We don’t have to, darlin’. Not if you’ve changed your mind.”

Jacob’s caught by the offer, by Theo's care, that _he cares_.

Damn his sleeve, for wearing his heart so often.

"What gives you that idea?" Jacob tries to laugh it off, pushing up on his elbows to get on the same level, but his fella just catches his hand—the ruined one, still bound in day-fresh bandages—and breathes a kiss against his knuckles.

Jacob hasn’t the words to follow such tenderness, for they've all been stolen away. So he tugs his good hand round the back of Ted's neck, pushing fingers up through his curly mop, pulling him in for the dawn of an eager embrace.

Teddy’s drawn willingly, pliable where he's led, but there's a strength to him Jacob’s never felt before, one he's desperate to see _more_ of… especially from this angle.

 _What_ a place to be, he thinks, as their bare bodies heat, and move as one, a touch so intimate Jacob could weep.

Their pricks are driven together in long, aching strokes, Ted's slight weight more than enough for some friction. Gives some bloody good _heft_ to those sweet, breathless noises he's panting into Jacob's open mouth.

He's also getting a greedy handful of that fine arse, spurring his bloke on.

_Oh_ how he's missed this, and it's barely been a day.

Seems his Teddy’s of the same mind, sweetly petting fingers through Jacob’s hair while they move together on a creaking bed frame, pouring love into his mouth.

“ _Jacob_ , sweet thing. Tell me what you need _._ ”

" _I need you_ ," he pants, feeling obvious but it’s the only thought in his head, "Need you to show me the ropes."

“ _Yeah_ ,” breathes Ted, smiling into a kiss more tender, more careful than all the ones that came before—and then Jacob’s arms are full of empty air, bereft as his man slips away from their bed.

He doesn’t have to long to mourn, consoled by the sight of Theo bending over to rummage in his discarded satchel, pert little arse in the air—and Christ, _what_ an arse.

Jacob wants to do unspeakable things to it, with his _mouth_ and his _hands_ and all the fiercest love in his heart.

His daydream comes to a swift and scattered end when Teddy seemingly finds what he needs, and then he’s back—kneeling on the edge of the mattress, gazing earnestly at Jacob. Slowly uncorking what looks to be a new bottle of oil, like he’s giving him time to change his mind.

No chance.

“It’s, _ah_ … if you’ve never…” Theo licks his lips. “It might feel, _strange_. At first.”

A little put off by the unexpected quiver in Teddy’s voice, Jacob hesitates. “I’ve... used fingers, on myself. That’s about it.”

Once. With no oil, only spit.

It was not… _pleasant_.

Surprise, something a little like _relief_ flickers across his bloke’s face, makes Jacob feel a tad better, seeing him smile.

“Sure. That’s good.”

And then Theo’s oiling up his first two fingers, stuffing the bottle beneath the pillow and returning to Jacob, nosing sweetly at his ear. “ _Lie back_ , love.”

Jacob does, shifting to get comfortable, hands flitting to Ted's waist while his fella gets in position, over him, between his thighs…

...oh, this is happening.

"Heh, I've wanted this, for a while.”

He's babbling for the sake of it, he knows, can’t help it, but then glances up at Ted's soft brown eyes and his nerves are momentarily dulled, "I'm glad, it's you."

Teddy’s gazing at him like he’s something wondrous, a marvel; voice low and rough with feeling.

“So am I.”

And then Theo’s kissing him, slow and keen, and Jacob loses himself in it. Feels Teddy rub a reassuring hand over his ribs while he brings the other to his arse, slick fingers dragging lightly between his cheeks.

He tilts his hips ever so, makes it easier, as those cool, oil-coated fingers circle over his hole.

Jacob lets out a shuddered breath, their foreheads pressed together, his eyes shut, tells himself to relax.

Anticipation riles his gut, wondering if this will be as lacklustre as the time he fingered himself. Not because Theo won’t be any good, but maybe he just won’t _enjoy_ it…?

He’s worried he won’t enjoy it.

What if he _doesn’t_ enjoy it?

“H-how was your first time?”

Babbling, again.

Theo gently eases the tip of a finger in, kissing soothingly at his jaw. Trying to calm him, Jacob thinks, a little wildly. As if he can be calmed at all, right now.

“Not… good,” Ted finally says, hands so very gentle. The oil isn’t as cold as before, and Jacob takes a deep breath. Tries to loosen up as Theo goes deeper.

“Was rentin’, the first time. Punter wasn’t kind.”

Way to go, _Jacob_ , get everyone in the mood, why don't you.

"Hope it improved, after that."

He doesn't really want to know if it didn't, doesn't want Ted thinking about that, reliving it—oh _God_ , he hopes _he_ didn't feel anything like that—

"And that _I_ didn't—"

“You _didn’t_ ,” Theo says, almost too quickly. “You’re grand. _Best I’ve ever had_.”

He catches Jacob’s eye, shy but fond, and full of feeling. “A friend helped me, after. A dolly. She… had a leather cock. Showed me what to do. That it didn’t have to hurt.” Teddy pushes in a little further, slow and careful, curling his finger to stroke inside.

Jacob sighs out the breath he's been holding, closes his eyes, tilts his chin up, loses himself in the feeling and Theo’s care. _That_ … that's _good_ , feels good… doesn’t hurt; it's clear Ted's mate knew what she was talking about.

"Wish I coulda seen that…" He says, amused, relaxing further and rocking back a little. Theo laughs, soft against his skin.

“Be glad ya didn’t. I was a right state.”

Ted curls a strong hand at his hip, fucking into him; feels better than he expected, _much_ better.

"Am I really, the _best_ you've had?" He was surprised when Ted said it, didn't— _couldn't_ believe it, but then Jacob doesn't know what to believe. He's searching Teddy's gaze, filled with a tenderness he can't fathom, for the truth… though quickly asking as an aside, "Is that two?"

Theo snorts, speeds up his hand just a little. “Not to inflate that ego o’ yours any further, but. _Yes_. No contest.”

And then, with the lightest brush of a kiss to his lips, “Just the one, yet.”

Oh, right.

"Give me another." Jacob says, certain of it.

“ _Greedy_ ,” Teddy murmurs approvingly, lining up a second finger but not quite pushing in, yet. “Need ya to _tell me_ , darlin’,” Teddy breathes, shaky, “how it feels. Good or bad, yeah?”

Jacob nods, slowly, "Yeah," he's realising again that he's one lucky fucker having found this man. " _S’good_."

And then he’s in him, two fingers deep, and Jacob forgets whatever he might have said next.

By the noises he finds himself making, you'd think Theo would twig that he’s enjoying himself, but the man still asks if it's good, asks if it hurts, and the answers to that are _bloody hell yes_ , and _no_ , _actually_.

Ted's taking such care—must have half a bottle of oil coating his fingers, because Jacob’s felt not a jot of pain.

It's most certainly somewhat strange, sure—but this is his first go-round with a fella’s fingers in his arse, it's _bound_ to. Right? It’s bound to.

It's slow for a while longer, Ted allowing him to get used to the feeling. But it's not long before those fingers get faster, curl in deeper, punch a little _harder_ —

Jacob starts rocking along, grabs a hold of himself and then a sudden pressure inside sends his gut into a jumbled, pleasured mess, a swell of sensations he's never felt—not having the decency to hide his whining.

" _Can't you use your_ _cock yet_?"

Ted laughs, actually _fucking_ laughs into his skin. “Not yet,” he says, but it feels like a promise. “Maybe after you take another for me.”

Can that be now? _Can that be now_?

" _Can that be now_?"

He groans, as Teddy's fingers continue moving _just right_ , wanting to be filled up further, get more of this bloke inside him.

Gets his wish when Ted drizzles more oil on his hand, then slicks inside him with another, and _fuck_ , that’s— _fuck!_

Jacob writhes, remembers to _try and relax_ so this feels as good as it can; he barely feels the burn of three fingers in there, it’s melted into something sweet and urgent now, and Theo is filling him up.

Maybe his bloke was _right_ when he said this was the next step; he feels stretched wide, almost too far but it's on the keen side of hurt. Jacob knows that it's the way to get what he wants and keeps pushing, urging on himself and Theo, wanting it all.

Except maybe his hand slipped off his own dick, too focussed on everywhere else, because Teddy’s taking him in his own: giving him a hot slick fist to fuck while those fingers open him up, and Jacob could _cry_ it feels so good, overwhelmed.

“Still feelin’ good?”

Amazed Ted can’t _twig that_ by the _everything_ about him, Jacob’s fairly sure he says _yes_ , in some form or another, either way he can hear Teddy chuckle, opening his eyes to one dazzlingly smug grin.

“You’re gorgeous, Jacob. Feckin’ _perfect_.”

" _Theo, please_ —"

That’s nice n’all, _more_ then nice but he's certain he'll come if this carries on, panting _please, please fuck me_ to the quiet close warmth of the room.

His fella only nips a teasing kiss against his cheek, avoiding Jacob’s lips, and thumbs lazily at the head of his cum-tipped cock.

“Like this?”

Yes, _yes_ that's top shelf, but _no_ —not like _that_.

"No— _with your dick_."

“ _Oh._ _Oh feck_ , _yes.”_

Teddy sounds eager, but mindful, and somewhere in the back of Jacob’s head he's grateful for it, even though there's currently little else in there right now other than a jumble of _Theo_ and _for God’s sake fuck me, bloody hell_.

Seems his wish is as good as granted when those fingers leave him with a slick, wet sound—

And _oh yes_ does he know what's coming next.

Vaguely hearing the vial uncork, yet more slippery sounds and Jacob's soon grinning, satisfied; he looks down the bed, between his splayed thighs to witness Teddy coating his own cock with the oil.

Fucking ready for this.

“If this is _too much_ —”

He rolls his eyes, interrupting, " _Theo_ , just put your cock _in_ my arse and _fuck me_."

“So romantic,” Teddy snarks, but he sounds wild and _happy_ , surging forward over him to nose against his ear, lips parted. “ _Give us a kiss_ , darlin’.”

Ted's revelry is catching, and Jacob laughs into their messy, haphazard embrace, pulls his fella closer, lying atop him.

Teddy runs an oily hand through Jacob’s hair, kisses him sweeter, sloppy and with tongue, leaves Jacob breathless when his fella parts, wanting him to stay, feel every ounce of love poured into his mouth.

Teddy’s not said those precious words again, not yet, but Jacob _feels_ them now, knows their taste on his lips, how it feels to be loved.

“I’ve never done this before,” Ted confesses, breathless.

Oh… right. Maybe he was trying to say _that_.

“Neither have I,” says Jacob, a nervous chuckle between them, hoping it will help. “Obviously.”

“Yeah,” Teddy laughs too, high and frantic, dragging him in for one last kiss, nuzzling desperately into his jaw. “ _Yeah_ , alright.”

And then his hands are on Jacob’s ribs, thumbs stroking gently, insistently. “ _Might be better_ ,” he starts, trailing off in the curve of Jacob’s throat, lips moving wordlessly instead.

Jacob waits, heart thudding in his ears while Ted tries again, thoughtful. “Might be, _easier_. On your front.”

Gives him pause for a moment, fighting through a lusty haze to understand… but when he takes their meaning, Jacob smirks. Gently pushes Ted backwards as he begins to sit up, turn over, a giddy need thrumming in him now, as he plants his knees apart. Presses shaky elbows in the covers, head down, cock heavy and full between his thighs.

Lets out a deep breath.

Stealing an upside-down glance, Jacob watches Teddy unfold those long legs with grace, kneeling behind him with care—watches his bloke’s hand slip around his own flushed cock, squeezing nervously as if to steady himself.

Jacob knows what he must look like. Shoving past the embarrassment threatening to blanket him, he tries to instead see himself as _Teddy_ does: Jacob Frye, stark naked on his bed, arms braced, legs spread. Ready and waiting to be fucked.

Lingers on that for a brief, terribly smug few seconds, until Jacob realises that actually, he’s _not_ being fucked; glancing behind with a raised brow and a smirk.

"Fallen asleep back there?"

Ted blinks, then arches a brow of his own, grin twisting, and slaps Jacob’s arse. Hard.

“Awfully bold for a man with his arse in the air.”

 _Damn_ that stung, but in a bloody _marvelous_ way.

“Better put me in my place, then, hadn’t you?“ He offers, glib, _eagerly_ waiting for it.

Hears Theo takes a deep breath alongside a rustling sound, and then an arm curling gently, firmly around his waist—bearing him up, just enough to slide their pillow beneath his hips.

“It’ll help,” Theo murmurs, hand slipping away to stroke fondly down his back.

It feels like reassurance, and Jacob braces himself for whatever comes next—warm, sweet kisses at the base of his spine, and Teddy’s fingers toying at the cleft of his arse, again.

Jacob shifts on his knees, and squirms, impatient.

 _Ready_.

The head of Theo's oiled-up cock presses where those slicked fingers fucked him open; thinking he hears his man muttering under his breath before he pushes in, slowly, carefully, barely moving… but it's still an awful _lot_.

" _Ah_ — _fuck_." He gasps, feels Ted tense and Jacob squeezes his eyes shut, reassuring the question that's sure to be on the tip of Teddy's tongue. "I'm _good—decent_ , please don't stop."

“Deep breaths,” Theo pleads, hips stilling, hands caressing the soft sides of Jacob’s waist. “I’ll wait.”

Jacob tells him to continue anyway, and Ted does, albeit slow and overcareful. He tries more deep breathing and it does help ease him, Jacob also shuts his mouth off from complaints, Theo knows better than he, he'll listen.

Soon he’s feeling the cradle of Teddy’s hips press snug against his arse. He's _all the way in_ , makes Jacob weak with relief; that didn’t hurt at all.

“ _Jacob_ ,” Theo breathes, sounding awed, adoring. “Is this…”

Settling into it, he makes a sound that under normal circumstances would make him blush, but Jacob’s already shoving his arse backwards with something primal, _needing_ Teddy to shift, keep moving, _keep_ fucking him. " _—good—s'good_."

Ted whispers his name again, beginning to rock those hips, grant his wish, slide deeper in him with every thrust; the moan that tears out of him is obscene, curling fists in the blankets with every new sensation he’s given, at how it feels to be so _full_.

He wants to help but he knows he’s got no good match for Ted’s pace here. Jacob _knows_ he’s a bloody mess, wound so tight that if he even _touches_ his own cock he’ll come.

Theo, for his part, sounds like he’s having a grand old time.

Jacob gathers enough of his scattered wits to stretch a look over his shoulder. Sees his fella’s head up, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open… and most importantly of all, those slender hips that Jacob would kill for are lined up behind his own, moving, deftly thrusting _in_ and _out_ , pushing against his arse, sticking that lengthy prick so _deep_ he could cry.

Jacob wants to stay watching, appreciate every little twitch of those piqued brows, every tiny gasp leaving Theo’s parted lips, witness the white-knuckled grip Ted has on his skin—but he can’t, and shoves his head straight down into the covers instead. Letting his own enjoyment rule, settling for whining his thoughts in the sheets.

... _especially_ as Teddy gets faster, the loud _slaps_ of his thighs against the back of Jacob’s are more salacious than they have any right to be.

“ _Jacob_ ,” Theo cries, breathless, already sounding utterly _gone_. Then Teddy fucking _whimpers_ while he moves a hand to curl around Jacob’s neglected cock.

Jacob gasps, can’t stop himself from fucking that fist, feeling Ted angling his own hips, panting between Jacob’s shoulder blades. Ted’s necklace chain drags along his back.

“Not gonna last, if you keep makin’ those noises, _feck_ —you feel, you’re— _oh_ , _darlin’_.”

Well that’s bloody rich!

“Not gonna _last_ —with _your hand_.” Jacob almost laughs, disbelieving.

And still fucking into said hand.

His bloke's trying his best to keep it slow, stop from following through with his warning and Jacob does his part, bites his tongue, even though he wants to cry out—wants Ted to fuck him harder and to know how good he feels—Jacob gasps— _caving with_ _the thought_.

" _Theo—I can’t—faster_ — _faster_ , oh, _god_ —"

“Oh, _Christ_ ,” Ted moans, and then Jacob gets his wish, because his man is gripping his hip hard enough to leave bruises and driving into him like the world is ending, maybe, his hand making slick, obscene sounds around Jacob’s cock.

He’s so _full_ he can barely think, and Teddy’s everything he’s always wanted.

His head is a haze of a mess, Teddy’s playing him like a fiddle, those long fingers wrapped around him, _digging_ into his flank, everything happening at once builds on top of the last and it all feels so much—then Teddy _groans_ low and deep at his back, right by his ear— _oh fuck_.

"Come in me, _fucking come in me_ —”

And his gorgeous fella was most likely planning on it anyway, but hearing those words so desperately aloud must _really_ do it for him, for _them_ —if Theo’s sudden and desperate sob is anything to go by.

Jacob has no mind to dwell on that as he promptly comes in his bloke’s hand, arching back against Ted’s hips, wrung out onto the pillow beneath him.

“Jacob, _Jacob_ —!”

Theo's curling his arm around Jacob’s middle and drags him close, pulls him tight and drives into him with a wordless cry.

 _Fuck_ it feels so good, exhausted but _so sweet_ , to know Teddy’s spilling inside him, and enjoying the thrill Jacob has before.

Ted takes time to wring himself out, slowly coming to a stop. When Jacob knows he's through he allows his knees to collapse, flopping down onto the cum-covered pillow, tangling the sheets.

Smiling like a fool by the time he glances behind, Jacob observes a fucked-out, satisfied fella slumped heavily atop his back.

He feels… _great_. Just the right side of used and appreciated, and he knows he might be sore come later, but by fuck if it wasn't worth it.

The best word to describe him would be… hmm… _quenched_.

Jacob’s long-held wish to have this—to take a man inside him so deep, he’ll still feel him come morning—is done, made all the sweeter by virtue of the fact that their hearts were involved, and just as greedy as their cocks.

One thing he never realised—one thing he never thought to consider, is perhaps the most important part—

It's not that you achieve your mark in the first place.

It's _who_ you achieve it with.

And here, well-fucked beneath Ted kissing lazily at his neck, Jacob knows he’s chosen the best of them all.

Another few moments of revelling in the feeling, and Jacob catches Teddy's eye over his shoulder, smirking.

" _So…_ how was it?"

“ _How was it_ ,” Theo mumbles, but he’s laughing, shoulders shaking as he buries his nose in Jacob’s skin. “My darlin’ man. You’re _divine_.”

Jacob can feel him trembling, heart thudding at his back, arms around him tight.

“ _I never knew_ … I never knew it would feel so sweet.” Ted noses at the hair curling over his ear, kissing him tenderly. “You’re alright? It didn’t hurt.”

"No…" He wants to say that Ted was so kind, so deliberate with his care, gush about how much he adores the man, how he wants to do it all over again, and only with him… but he doesn't want to push it.

Goes for the joke instead.

"I only felt a prick."

“Cheeky fecker,” Teddy snorts, and bites his ear.

Jacob laughs and squirms away, well, as much as he can with Ted sprawled across him, and heaves a happy sigh.

"I think we've earnt our breakfast."

“Mm,” Ted agrees, and flops over on his side, gently tugging Jacob round to face him.

“Lay here, I’ll get it.” But his actions don't quite follow; instead, Teddy reaches for Jacob, and makes no hurry to move from their embrace, foreheads pressing softly together.

Ted’s eyes drift closed, and Jacob’s taking in every part of him while he has the chance…

“ _Oh_ ,” Theo says then, catching Jacob off guard. Ted opens one eye to smile broadly at him. “I nearly forgot.” He presses a kiss to Jacob’s nose and untangles himself, slipping from their bed on naked feet.

Jacob watches him curiously, as Teddy makes straight for his desk, bypassing the washstand entirely.

He rummages in it, tugging open a drawer and appearing to find whatever he's looking for, but holds it well out of sight.

“If I can't eat it,” Jacob warns, smirk breaking through as his fella returns, and sets himself upon the mattress, “I don’t want it.”

But Jacob can feel Theo's quiet enthusiasm thrumming in the air around them, and his bloke gently pushes him over, back into the sheets with a hand on his heart.

“As you like,” Ted says cheerfully, and lays something small and cold in the centre of Jacob’s chest, before sitting back on his knees.

Jacob cranes a look down, brows piqued at the object as he picks it up, turning it over in his hand.

It's a key.

A _familiar_ -looking key, in fact. And it's brand-spanking new. Jacob glances from it, to Ted. Sees he's still smiling.

"Is this mine? For _here_?"

He asks, to clarify. _Doesn't_ want to leap to conclusions, but is having a difficult time hiding his glee.

Ted shrugs, as if it’s of no consequence, but the flush in his cheeks says otherwise. “Can't very well have you breakin’ windows, now. Clarissa, she’ll have my head.”

Jacob knows there's more to it than that, thoughts and feelings Ted’s not saying aloud. Looking back at the key and pushing to sit up, he cocks a brow, teasing. "Is this a spare…?"

“It’s _yours_.” Teddy’s eyes are as warm and dark as sticky toffee. “If you want it.”

"'Course I do." Not that Jacob ever plans to use it. He'll keep slipping through the windows, well away from the prying eyes of Ted's neighbours and landlady, into this very room.

Theo smiles.

It’s more than a key, he knows—it’s as good as a promise, an open invitation to stay, to nurture this little growing thing between them.

Something real, to hold in his hand.

“Love you, darlin’ man.”

While everything else is held in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was _totally_ necessary and absolutely _integral_ to the plot, you'll have to trust me, I know.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **"Sometimes I bring my own cup."** : back in the Victorian era street vendors didn't have the single-use plastic cups or food containers that we so take for granted today. They did have cups and mugs for patrons to use, but they weren't allowed to take them away. You had to stand and eat your meal by the stall, then hand it back to the owner once finished, only for it to get washed out and given to the next customer for _them_ to eat from. I _say_ it got washed out... but that's if you were lucky
> 
>  **Gassing** : slang for talking too much, or talking a lot about trivial things, unnecessary gossip, basically
> 
>  **Tea-leaf** : Cockney rhyming slang for 'thief'. Jacob's a big ol' Mockney 
> 
> **"That's a lot of money"** : it sure was, since 1868, inflation on the pound has been on average 3.2% per year. That means £1 back then is worth £115 in 2020 ( the equivalent of $157 or €131)
> 
>  **Mug** : as well as referring to someone's face, 'mug' can be used to call a person gullible, that they're easily taken advantage of 
> 
> **"...making a filthy gesture with a loose fist..."** : the gesture that Tilly makes means she knows what Jacob and Ted will be up to this weekend... it imitates wanking someone off with your hand
> 
>  **Toffee-nosed** : British slang referring to the upper classes and others who think they're superior to us mere peasants


End file.
